7\ 


V 


IN  MEMORY  OF 
WILLIAM  C.  HABBERLEY 


.  Comp. 


BIRDS  IN  THE  BUSH.     i6mo,  $1.25. 
A  RAMBLER'S  LEASE.     i6mo,  $1.25. 

HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN  &  CO. 

BOSTON  AND   NEW  YORK. 


A  RAMBLER'S  LEASE 


BY 

BRADFORD  TORREY 


I  have  known  many  laboring  men  that  have  got  good  estates 
in  this  valley.  —  BUNYAN 
Sunbeams,  shadows,  butterflies,  and  birds.  —  WORDSWORTH 


BOSTON  AND  NEW  YORK 
HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN  AND  COMPANY 

Press,  Camfcri&0e 
1892 


iv  PREFATORY  NOTE. 

matter,  he  cannot  help  thinking  that  some 
of  his  more  prosperous  neighbors  would 
do  well,  in  legal  phrase,  to  perfect  their 
titles.  He  would  gladly  be  of  service  to 
them  in  this  regard. 


CONTENTS. 

PAG* 

MY  REAL  ESTATE 

A  WOODLAND  INTIMATE        .        .        .        .        .      22 

AN  OLD  ROAD 

CONFESSIONS  OF  A  BIRD'S-NEST  HUNTBR     .        .      70 
A  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  CORN-FIELD     . 

BEHIND  THE  EYE 114 

A  NOVEMBER  CHRONICLE I21 

NEW  ENGLAND  WINTER : 

A  MOUNTAIN-SIDE  RAMBLE        .... 

A  PITCH-PINE  MEDITATION : 

ESOTERIC  PERIPATETICISM 

BUTTERFLY  PSYCHOLOGY 206 

BASHFUL  DRUMMER* 214 


2  M Y  REAL  ESTATE. 

tively  unremunerative.  Here  in  New  Eng- 
land (I  know  not  what  may  be  true  else- 
where) there  is  a  class  of  people  whom  it  is 
common  to  hear  gossiped  about  compassion- 
ately as  "land  poor."  But,  however  scanty 
the  income  to  be  derived  from  it,  a  landed 
investment  is  at  least  substantial.  It  will 
never  fail  its  possessor  entirely.  If  it  starve 
him,  it  will  offer  him  a  grave.  It  has  the 
prime  quality  of  permanence.  At  the  very 
worst,  it  will  last  as  long  as  it  is  needed. 
Railroads  may  be  "wrecked,"  banks  be 
broken,  governments  become  bankrupt,  and 
we  be  left  to  mourn  ;  but  when  the  earth 
departs  we  shall  go  with  it.  Yes,  the  an- 
cient form  of  speech  is  correct,  —  land  is 
real;  as  the  modern  phrase  goes,  translat- 
ing Latin  into  Saxon,  land  is  the  thing  ;  and 
though  we  can  scarcely  reckon  it  among 
the  necessaries  of  life,  since  so  many  do 
without  it,  we  may  surely  esteem  it  one  of 
the  least  dispensable  of  luxuries. 

But  I  was  beginning  to  speak  of  my  tax- 
bill,  and  must  not  omit  to  mention  a  further 
advantage  of  real  estate  over  other  forms 
of  property.  It  is  certain  not  to  be  over- 
looked by  the  town  assessors.  Its  pro- 


MY  REAL  ESTATE.  3 

prietor  is  never  shut  up  to  the  necessity  of 
either  advertising  his  own  good  fortune,  or 
else  submitting  to  pay  less  than  his  right- 
ful share  of  the  public  expenses,  —  a  merci- 
ful deliverance,  for  in  such  a  strait,  where 
either  modesty  or  integrity  must  go  to  the 
wall,  it  is  hard  for  human  nature  to  be  sure 
of  itself. 

To  my  thinking  there  is  no  call  upon  a 
man's  purse  which  should  be  responded  to 
with  greater  alacrity  than  this  of  the  tax- 
gatherer.  In  what  cause  ought  we  to  spend 
freely,  if  not  in  that  of  home  and  country  ? 
I  have  heard,  indeed,  of  some  who  do  not 
agree  with  me  in  this  feeling.  Possibly 
tax -rates  are  now  and  then  exorbitant. 
Possibly,  too,  my  own  view  of  the  subject 
might  be  different  were  my  quota  of  the 
public  levy  more  considerable.  This  year, 
for  instance,  I  am  called  upon  for  seventy- 
three  cents ;  if  the  demand  were  for  as 
many  dollars,  who  knows  whether  I  might 
not  welcome  it  with  less  enthusiasm  ?  On 
such  a  point  it  would  be  unbecoming  for 
tm&  to  speak.  Enough  that  even  with  my 
fraction  of  a  dollar  I  am  able  to  rejoice  that 
I  have  a  share  in  all  the  town's  multifa- 


4  MY  HEAL  ESTATE. 

rious  outlay.  If  an  additional  fire-engine 
is  bought,  or  a  new  school-house  built,  or 
the  public  library  replenished,  it  is  done  in 
part  out  of  my  pocket. 

Here,  however,  let  me  make  a  single  ex- 
ception. I  seldom  go  home  (such  language 
still  escapes  me  involuntarily)  without  find- 
ing that  one  or  another  of  the  old  roads 
has  been  newly  repaired.  I  hope  that  no 
mill  of  my  annual  seventy  or  eighty  cents 
goes  into  work  of  that  sort.  The  roads  — 
such  as  I  have  in  mind  —  are  out  of  the 
way  and  little  traveled,  and,  in  my  opin- 
ion, were  better  left  to  take  care  of  them- 
selves. There  is  no  artist  but  will  testify 
that  a  crooked  road  is  more  picturesque 
than  a  straight  one ;  while  a  natural  border 
of  alder  bushes,  grape-vines,  Roxbury  wax- 
work, Virginia  creeper,  wild  cherry,  and 
such  like  is  an  inexpensive  decoration 
of  the  very  best  sort,  such  as  the  Village 
Improvement  Society  ought  never  to  allow 
any  highway  surveyor  to  lay  his  hands  on, 
unless  in  some  downright  exigency.  What 
a  short  -sigh  ted  policy  it  is  that  provides 
for  the  comfort  of  the  feet,  but  makes  no 
account  of  those  more  intellectual  and  spir- 


MY  REAL  ESTATE.  0 

itual  pleasures  which  enter  through  the 
eye!  It  may  be  answered,  I  know,  that  in 
matters  of  general  concern  it  is  necessary 
to  consult  the  greatest  good  of  the  great- 
est number ;  and  that,  while  all  the  inhab- 
itants of  the  town  are  supplied  with  feet, 
comparatively  few  of  them  have  eyes. 
There  is  force  in  this,  it  must  be  admitted. 
Possibly  the  highway  surveyor  (the  high- 
wayman, I  was  near  to  writing)  is  not  so 
altogether  wrong  in  his  "improvements." 
At  all  events,  it  is  not  worth  while  for  me 
to  make  ^the  question  one  of  conscience, 
and  go  to  jail  rather  than  pay  my  taxes, 
as  Thoreau  did.  Let  it  suffice  to  enter  my 
protest.  Whatever  others  may  desire,  for 

myself,  as  often  as  I  revisit  W ,  I  wish 

to  be  able  to  repeat  with  unction  the  words 
of  W 's  only  poet,1  — 

"How  dear  to  ray  heart  are  the  scenes  of  my  childhood  !  " 

And  how  am  I  to  do  that,  if  the  "  scenes  " 
have  been  modernized  past  recognition  ? 

1  Since  this  essay  was  originally  published  (in  the  Atlantic 
Monthly)  I  have  been  assured  that  the  author  of  The  Old 

Oaken  Bucket  was  not  born  in  W ,  but  in  the  next  town. 

Being  convinced  against  my  will,  however,  and  finding  the 
biographical  dictionaries  divided  upon  the  point,  I  conclude 
to  let  the  text  stand  unaltered. 


6  MY  REAL  ESTATE. 

My  own  landed  possessions  are  happily 
remote  from  roads.  Not  till  long  after 
my  day  will  the  "  tide  of  progress  "  bring 
them  "  into  the  market,"  as  the  real-estate 
brokers  are  fond  of  saying.  I  have  never 
yet  been  troubled  with  the  importunities 
of  would-be  purchasers.  Indeed,  it  is  a  prin- 
cipal recommendation  of  woodland  prop- 
erty that  one's  sense  of  proprietorship  is  so 
little  liable  to  be  disturbed.  I  often  reflect 
how  altered  the  case  would  be  were  my 
fraction  of  an  acre  in  some  peculiarly  de- 
sirable location  near  the  centre  of  the  vil- 
lage. Then  I  could  hardly  avoid  knowing 
that  the  neighbors  were  given  to  speculat- 
ing among  themselves  about  my  probable 
selling  price  ;  once  in  a  while  I  should  be 
confronted  with  a  downright  offer ;  and 
what  assurance  could  I  feel  that  somebody 
would  not  finally  tempt  me  beyond  my 
strength,  and  actually  buy  me  out  ?  As  it 
is,  my  land  is  mine ;  and,  unless  extreme 
poverty  overtakes  me,  mine  it  is  reasona- 
bly certain  to  remain,  till  death  shall  sepa- 
rate us. 

Whatever  contributes  to  render  life  in- 
teresting and  enjoyable  goes  so  far  toward 


MY  REAL  ESTATE.  7 

making  difficult  its  final  inevitable  sur- 
render ;  and  it  must  be  confessed  that  the 
thought  of  my  wood-lot  increases  my  other- 
wise natural  regret  at  being  already  so  well 
along  on  my  journey.  In  a  sense  I  feel  my 
own  existence  to  be  bound  up  with  that  of 
my  pine-trees ;  or,  to  speak  more  exactly, 
that  their  existence  is  bound  up  with  mine. 
For  it  is  a  sort  of  unwritten  but  inexora- 
ble law  in  W ,  as  in  fact  it  appears  to 

be  throughout  New  England,  that  no  pine 
must  ever  be  allowed  to  reach  more  than 
half  its  normal  growth  ;  so  that  my  trees 
are  certain  to  fall  under  the  axe  as  soon  as 
their  present  owner  is  out  of  the  way.  I 
am  not  much  given  to  superstition.  There 
are  no  longer  any  dryads,  it  is  to  be  pre- 
sumed ;  and  if  there  were,  it  is  not  clear 
that  they  would  be  likely  to  take  up  with 
pines  ;  but  for  all  that,  I  cherish  an  almost 
affectionate  regard  for  any  trees  with  which 
I  have  become  familiar.  I  have  mourned 
the  untimely  fate  of  many ;  and  now,  see- 
ing that  I  have  been  entrusted  with  the 
guardianship  of  these  few,  I  hold  myself 
under  a  kind  of  sacred  obligation  to  live  as 
long  as  possible,  for  their  sakes. 


8  MY  REAL  ESTATE. 

It  is  now  a  little  less  than  a  fortnight 
since  I  paid  them  a  visit.  The  path  runs 
through  the  wood  for  perhaps  half  a  mile ; 
and,  as  I  sauntered  along,  I  heard  every 
few  rods  the  thump  of  falling  acorns, 
though  there  was  barely  wind  enough  to 
sway  the  tree-tops.  "  Mother  Earth  has 
begun  her  harvesting  in  good  earnest,"  I 
thought.  The  present  is  what  the  squir- 
rels call  a  good  year.  They  will  laugh  and 
grow  fat.  Their  oak  orchards  have  seldom 
done  better,  the  chestnut  oaks  in  partic- 
ular, the  handsome,  rosy-tipped  acorns  of 
which  are  noticeably  abundant. 

This  interesting  tree,  so  like  the  chestnut 
itself  in  both  bark  and  leaf,  is  unfortu- 
nately not  to  be  found  in  my  own  lot;  at 
any  rate,  I  have  never  discovered  it  there, 
although  it  grows  freely  only  a  short  dis- 
tance away.  But  I  have  never  explored 
the  ground  with  anything  like  thorough- 
ness, and,  to  tell  the  truth,  am  not  at  all 
certain  that  I  know  just  where  the  bound- 
aries run.  In  this  respect  my  real  estate  is 
not  unlike  my  intellectual  possessions  ;  con- 
cerning which  I  often  find  it  impossible  to 
determine  what  is  actually  mine  and  what 


MY  REAL   ESTATE.  9 

another's.  I  have  written  an  essay  before 
now,  and  at  the  end  been  more  or  less  in 
doubt  where  to  set  the  quotation  marks. 
For  that  matter,  indeed,  I  incline  to  believe 
that  the  whol  3  tract  of  woods  in  the  midst 
of  which  my  little  spot  is  situated  belongs 
to  me  quite  as  really  as  to  the  various  per- 
sons who  claim  the  legal  ownership.  Not 
many  of  these  latter,  I  am  confident,  get  a 
better  annual  income  from  the  property 
than  I  do  ;  and  even  in  law,  we  are  told, 
possession  counts  for  nine  points  out  of  the 
ten.  They  are  never  to  be  found  at  home 
when  I  call,  and  I  feel  no  scruple  about 
carrying  away  whatever  I  please.  My  treas- 
ures, be  it  said,  however,  are  chiefly  of  an 
impalpable  sort,  —  mostly  thoughts  and 
feelings,  though  with  a  few  flowers  and 
ferns  now  and  then ;  the  one  set  about  as 
valuable  as  the  other,  the  proprietors  of  the 
land  would  probably  think. 

In  one  aspect  of  the  case,  the  lot  which 
is  more  strictly  my  own  is  just  now  in  a 
very  interesting  condition,  though  one  that, 
unhappily,  is  far  from  being  uncommon. 
Except  the  pines  already  mentioned  (only 
six  or  eight  in  number),  the  wood  was  en- 


10  MY  REAL   ESTATE. 

tirely  cut  off  a  few  years  before  I  came 
into  possession,  and  at  present  the  place  is 
covered  with  a  thicket  of  vines,  bushes,  and 
young  trees,  all  engaged  in  an  almost  des- 
perate struggle  for  existence.  When  the 
ground  was  cleared,  every  seed  in  it  be- 
stirred itself  and  came  up ;  others  made 
haste  to  enter  from  without ;  and  ever  since 
then  the  battle  has  been  going  on.  It  is 
curious  to  consider  how  changed  the  ap- 
pearance of  things  will  be  at  the  end  of 
fifty  years,  should  nature  be  left  till  then 
to  take  its  course.  By  that  time  the  contest 
will  for  the  most  part  be  over.  At  least 
nineteen  twentieths  of  all  the  plants  that 
enlisted  in  the  fight  will  have  been  killed, 
and  where  now  is  a  dense  mass  of  shrub- 
bery will  be  a  grove  of  lordly  trees,  with 
the  ground  underneath  broad -spaced  and 
clear.  A  noble  result ;  but  achieved  at 
what  a  cost !  If  one  were  likely  himself  to 
live  so  long,  it  would  be  worth  while  to  cat- 
alogue the  species  now  in  the  field,  for  the 
sake  of  comparing  the  list  with  a  similar 
one  of  half  a  century  later.  The  contrast 
would  be  an  impressive  sermon  on  the  mu- 
tability of  mundane  things.  But  we  shall 


MY  REAL  ESTATE.  H 

be  past  the  need  of  preaching,  most  of  us, 
before  that  day  arrives,  and  not  unlikely 
shall  have  been  ourselves  preached  about 
in  enforcement  of  the  same  trite  theme. 

Thoughts  of  this  kind  came  to  me  the 
other  afternoon,  as  I  stood  in  the  path 
(what  is  known  as  the  town  path  cuts  the 
lot  in  two)  and  looked  about.  So  much 
was  going  on  in  this  bit  of  earth,  itself  the 
very  centre  of  the  universe  to  multitudes  of 
living  things.  The  city  out  of  which  I  had 
come  was  not  more  densely  populous.  Here 
at  my  elbow  stood  a  group  of  sassafras 
saplings,  remnants  of  a  race  that  has  held 
the  ground  for  nobody  knows  how  long. 
One  of  my  earliest  recollections  of  the  place 
is  of  coming  hither  to  dig  for  fragrant  roots. 
At  that  time  it  had  never  dawned  upon  me 
that  the  owner  of  the  land  would  some  day 
die,  and  leave  it  to  me,  his  heir.  How  hard 
and  rocky  the  ground  was !  And  how  hard 
we  worked  for  a  very  little  bark  !  Yet  few 
of  my  pleasures  have  lasted  better.  The 
spicy  taste  is  in  my  mouth  still.  Even  in 
those  days  I  remarked  the  glossy  green 
twigs  of  this  elegant  species,  as  well  as  the 
unique  and  beautiful  variety  of  its  leaves, 


12  MY  REAL  ESTATE. 

—  some  entire  and  oval,  others  mitten- 
shaped,  and  others  yet  three-lobed ;  an  ex- 
tremely pretty  bit  of  originality,  suiting 
admirably  with  the  general  comely  habit  of 
this  tree.  There  are  some  trees,  as  some 
men,  that  seem  born  to  dress  well. 

Along  with  the  sassafras  I  was  delighted 
to  find  one  or  two  small  specimens  of  the 
flowering  dogwood  (Cornus  florida),  —  an- 
other original  genius,  and  one  which  I  now 
for  the  first  time  became  acquainted  with 
as  a  tenant  of  my  own.  Its  deeply  veined 
leaves  are  not  in  any  way  remarkable  (un- 
less it  be  for  their  varied  autumnal  tints), 
and  are  all  fashioned  after  one  pattern. 
Its  blossoms,  too,  are  small  and  inconspic- 
uous ;  but  these  it  sets  round  with  large 
white  bracts  (universally  mistaken  for 
petals  by  the  uninitiated),  and  in  flower- 
ing time  it  is  beyond  comparison  the  show- 
iest tree  in  the  woods,  while  its  fruit  is  the 
brightest  of  coral  red.  I  hope  these  sap- 
lings of  mine  may  hold  their  own  in  the 
struggle  for  life,  arid  be  flourishing  in  all 
their  beauty  when  my  successor  goes  to 
look  at  them  fifty  years  hence. 

Having  spoken  of  the  originality  of  the 


MY  REAL  ESTATE.  13 

sassafras  and  the  dogwood,  I  must  not  fail 
to  mention  their  more  abundant  neighbor, 
the  witch-hazel,  or  hainamelis.  In  com- 
parison with  its  wild  freak  of  singularity, 
the  modest  idiosyncrasies  of  the  other  two 
seem  almost  conventional.  Why,  if  not  for 
sheer  oddity's  sake,  should  any  bush  in  this 
latitude  hold  back  its  blossoms  till  near  the 
edge  of  winter?  As  I  looked  at  the  half- 
grown  buds,  clustered  in  the  axils  of  the 
yellow  leaves,  they  appeared  to  be  waiting 
for  the  latter  to  fall,  that  they  might  have 
the  sunlight  all  to  themselves.  They  will 
need  it,  one  would  say,  in  our  bleak  No- 
vember weather. 

Overfull  of  life  as  my  wild  garden  patch 
was,  it  would  not  have  kept  its  (human) 
possessor  very  long  from  starvation.  One 
or  two  barberry  bushes  made  a  brave  show 
of  fruitfulness ;  but  the  handsome  clusters 
were  not  yet  ripe,  and  even  at  their  best 
they  are  more  ornamental  than  nutritive, 
—  though,  after  the  frost  has  cooked  them, 
one  may  go  farther  and  fare  worse.  A 
few  stunted  maple-leaved  viburnums  (this 
plant's  originality  is  imitative,  —  a  not  un- 
common sort,  by  the  bye)  proffered  scanty 


14  MY  REAL  ESTATE. 

cymes  of  dark  purplish  drupes.  Here  and 
there  was  a  spike  of  red  berries,  belong- 
ing to  the  false  Solomon's  -  seal  or  false 
spikenard  (what  a  pity  this  worthy  herb 
should  not  have  some  less  negative  title !)  ; 
but  these  it  would  have  been  a  shame  to 
steal  from  the  grouse.  Not  far  off  a  single 
black  alder  was  reddening  its  fruit,  which 
all  the  while  it  hugged  close  to  the  stem, 
as  if  in  dread  lest  some  chance  traveler 
should  be  attracted  by  the  bright  color.  It 
need  not  have  trembled,  for  this  time  at 
least.  I  had  just  dined,  and  was  tempted 
by  nothing  save  two  belated  blackberries, 
the  very  last  of  the  year's  crop,  and  a  single 
sassafras  leaf,  mucilaginous  and  savory,  ad- 
mirable as  a  relish.  A  few  pigeon-berries 
might  have  been  found,  I  dare  say,  had  I 
searched  for  them,  and  possibly  a  few  spo- 
radic checker-berries ;  while  right  before 
my  eyes  was  a  vine  loaded  with  large 
bunches  of  very  small  frost-grapes,  such  as 
for  hardness., would  have  served  well  enough 
for  school-boys'  marbles.  Everything  has 
its  favorable  side,  however;  and  probably 
the  birds  counted  it  a  blessing  that  the 
grapes  were  small  and  hard  and  sour  ;  else 


MY  REAL  ESTATE.  15 

greedy  men  would  have  come  with  baskets 
and  carried  them  all  away.  Except  some 
scattered  rose  -  hips,  I  have  enumerated 
everything  that  looked  edible,  I  believe, 
though  a  hungry  man's  eyes  might  have 
lengthened  the  list  materially.  The  cherry- 
trees,  hickories,  and  oaks  were  not  yet  in 
bearing,  as  the  horticultural  phrase  is ;  but 
I  was  glad  to  run  upon  a  clump  of  bay  berry 
bushes,  which  offer  nothing  good  to  eat,  to 
be  sure,  but  are  excellent  to  smell  of.  The 
leaves  always  seem  to  invite  crushing,  and 
I  never  withhold  my  hand. 

Among  the  crowd  of  young  trees  —  scrub 
oaks,  red  oaks,  white  oaks,  cedars,  ashes, 
hickories,  birches,  maples,  aspens,  sumachs, 
and  hornbeams —  was  a  single  tupelo.  The 
distinguished  name  honors  my  catalogue, 
but  I  am  half  sorry  to  have  it  there.  For, 
with  all  its  sturdiness,  the  tupelo  does  not 
bear  competition,  and  I  foresee  plainly 
that  my  unlucky  adventurer  will  inevitably 
find  itself  overshadowed  by  more  rapid 
growers,  and  be  dwarfed  and  deformed,  if 
not  killed  outright.  Some  of  the  very 
strongest  natures  (and  the  remark  is  of 
general  application)  require  to  be  planted 


16  MY  REAL  ESTATE. 

in  the  open,  where  they  can  be  free  to  de- 
velop in  their  own  way  and  at  leisure.  But 
this  representative  of  Nyssa  multiflora  took 
the  only  chance  that  offered,  I  presume,  as 
the  rest  of  us  must  do. 

Happy  the  humble!  who  aspire  not  to 
lofty  things,  demanding  the  lapse  of  years 
for  their  fulfillment,  but  are  content  to  set 
before  themselves  some  lesser  task,  such  as 
the  brevity  of  a  single  season  may  suffice 
to  accomplish.  Here  were  the  asters  and 
golden -rods  already  finishing  their  course 
in  glory,  while  the  tupelo  was  still  barely 
getting  under  way  in  a  race  which,  how- 
ever prolonged,  was  all  but  certain  to  ter- 
minate in  failure.  Of  the  golden -rods  I 
noted  four  species,  including  the  white  — 
which  might  appropriately  be  called  sil- 
very-rod —  and  the  blue-stemmed.  The 
latter  {Solidago  ccesia)  is  to  my  eye  the 
prettiest  of  all  that  grow  with  us,  though 
it  is  nearly  the  least  obtrusive.  It  is  rarely, 
if  ever,  found  outside  of  woods,  and  ought 
to  bear  some  name  (sylvan  golden-rod,  per- 
haps) indicative  of  the  fact. 

As  a  rule,  fall  flowers  have  little  deli- 
cacy and  fragrance.  They  are  children  of 


MY  REAL  ESTATE.  17 

the  summer ;  and,  loving  the  sun,  have  had 
almost  an  excess  of  good  fortune.  With 
such  pampering,  it  is  no  wonder  they  grow 
rank  and  coarse.  They  would  be  more 
than  human,  I  was  going  to  say,  if  they 
did  not.  It  is  left  for  stern  winter's  pro- 
geny, the  blossoms  of  early  spring-time, 
who  struggle  upward  through  the  snow  and 
are  blown  upon  by  chilly  winds,  —  it  is  left 
for  these  gentle  creatures,  at  once  so  hardy 
and  so  frail,  to  illustrate  the  sweet  uses  of 
adversity. 

All  in  all,  it  was  a  motley  company 
which  I  beheld  thus  huddled  together  in 
my  speck  of  forest  clearing.  Even  the 
lands  beyond  the  sea  were  represented,  for 
here  stood  mullein  and  yarrow,  contesting 
the  ground  with  oaks  and  hickories.  The 
smaller  wood  flowers  were  not  wanting,  of 
course,  though  none  of  them  were  now  in 
bloom.  Pyrola  and  winter  -  green,  violets 
(the  common  blue  sort  and  the  leafy- 
stemmed  yellow),  strawberry  and  five-finger, 
saxifrage  and  columbine,  rock -rose  and 
bed-straw,  self  -  heal  and  wood  -  sorrel,  — 
these,  and  no  doubt  many  more,  were  there, 
filling  the  chinks  otherwise  unoccupied. 


18  MY  REAL  ESTATE. 

My  assortment  of  ferns  is  small,  but  I 
noted  seven  species:  the  brake,  the  poly- 
pody, the  hay-scented,  and  four  species  of 
shield  -  ferns,  —  Aspidium  Noveboracense, 
Aspidium  spinulosum,  variety  intermedium, 
Aspidium  marginale,  and  the  Christmas 
fern,  Aspidium  acrostichoides.  The  last 
named  is  the  one  of  which  I  am  proudest. 
For  years  I  have  been  in  the  habit  of  com- 
ing hither  at  Christmas  time  to  gather  the 
fronds,  which  are  then  as  bright  and  fresh 
as  in  June.  Two  of  the  others,  the  poly- 
pody and  Aspidium  marginale,  are  ever- 
green also,  but  they  are  coarser  in  texture 
and  of  a  less  lively  color.  Writing  of 
these  flowerless  beauties,  I  am  tempted  to 
exclaim  again,  "  Happy  the  humble !  " 
The  brake  is  much  the  largest  and  stoutest 
of  the  seven,  but  it  is  by  a  long  time  the 
first  to  be  cut  down  before  the  frost. 

Should  I  ever  meet  with  reverses,  as  the 
wealthiest  and  most  prudent  are  liable  to 
do,  and  be  compelled  to  part  with  my 
woodland  inheritance,  I  shall  count  it  ex- 
pedient to  seek  a  purchaser  in  the  spring. 
At  that  season  its  charms  are  greatly 
enhanced  by  a  lively  brook.  This  comes 


MY  REAL  ESTATE.  19 

tumbling  down  the  hill -side,  dashing 
against  the  bowlders  (of  which  the  land 
has  plenty),  and  altogether  acting  like  a 
thing  not  born  to  die  ;  but  alas,  the  early 
summer  sees  it  make  an  end,  to  wait  the 
melting  of  next  winter's  snow.  Many  a 
happy  hour  did  I,  as  a  youngster,  pass 
upon  its  banks,  watching  with  wonder  the 
swarms  of  tiny  insects  which  darkened  the 
foam  and  the  snow,  and  even  filmed  the 
surface  of  the  brook  itself.  I  marveled 
then,  as  I  do  now,  why  such  creatures 
should  be  out  so  early.  Possibly  our  very 
prompt  March  friend,  the  phoebe,  could 
suggest  an  explanation. 

A  break  in  the  forest  is  of  interest  not 
only  to  such  plants  as  I  have  been  remark- 
ing upon,  but  also  to  various  species  of 
birds.  No  doubt  the  towhee,  the  brown 
thrush,  and  the  cat-bird  found  out  this  spot 
years  ago,  and  have  been  using  it  ever  since 
for  summer  quarters.  Indeed,  a  cat-bird 
snarled  at  me  for  an  intruder  this  very 
September  afternoon,  though  he  himself 
was  most  likely  nothing  more  than  a  chance 
pilgrim  going  South.  This  member  of  the 
noble  wren  family  and  near  cousin  of  the 


20  MY  REAL  ESTATE. 

mocking-bird  would  be  better  esteemed  if 
he  were  to  drop  that  favorite  feline  call  of 
his.  But  this  is  his  bit  of  originality  (imi- 
tative, like  the  maple-leaved  viburnum's), 
and  perhaps,  if  justice  were  done,  it  would 
be  put  down  to  his  credit  rather  than  made 
an  occasion  of  ill-will. 

Once  during  the  afternoon  a  company  of 
chickadees  happened  in  upon  me  ;  and,  tak- 
ing my  cue  from  the  newspaper  folk,  I  im- 
mediately essayed  an  interview.  My  imi- 
tation of  their  conversational  notes  was 
hardly  begun  before  one  of  the  birds  flew 
toward  me,  and,  alighting  near  by,  pro- 
ceeded to  answer  my  calls  with  a  mimicry 
so  exact,  as  fairly  to  be  startling.  To  all 
appearance  the  quick  -  witted  fellow  had 
taken  the  game  into  his  own  hands.  In- 
stead of  my  deceiving  him,  he  would  prob- 
ably go  back  and  entertain  his  associates 
with  amusing  accounts  of  how  cleverly  he 
had  fooled  a  stranger,  out  yonder  in  the 
bushes. 

It  would  have  seemed  a  graceful  and  ap- 
propriate acknowledgment  of  my  rightful 
ownership  of  the  land  on  which  the  cat- 
bird and  the  titmice  were  foraging,  had 


MY  REAL  ESTATE.  21 

they  greeted  me  with  songs.  But  it  would 
hardly  have  been  courteous  for  me  to  pro- 
pose the  matter,  and  evidently  it  did  not 
occur  to  them.  At  all  events,  I  heard  no 
music  except  the  hoarse  and  solemn  assev- 
erations of  the  katydids,  the  gentler  mes- 
sage of  the  crickets,  and  in  the  distance  an 
occasional  roll-call  of  the  grouse.  My  dog 
—  who  is  a  much  better  sportsman  than 
myself,  but  whose  companionship,  I  am 
ashamed  to  see,  has  not  till  now  been  men- 
tioned—  was  all  the  while  making  forays 
hither  and  thither  into  the  surrounding 
woods ;  and  once  in  a  while  I  heard,  what 
is  the  best  of  all  music  in  his  ears,  the 
whir  of  "  partridge  "  wings.  Likely  as  not 
he  thought  it  a  queer  freak  on  my  part  to 
spend  the  afternoon  thus  idly,  when  with  a 
gun  I  might  have  been  so  much  more  profit- 
ably employed.  He  could  not  know  that 
I  was  satiating  myself  with  a  miser's  de- 
lights, feasting  my  eyes  upon  my  own.  In 
truth,  I  fancy  he  takes  it  for  granted  that 
the  whole  forest  belongs  to  me  —  and  to 
him.  Perhaps  it  does.  As  I  said  just 
now,  I  sometimes  think  so  myself. 


A  WOODLAND  INTIMATE. 

Surely  there  are  times 
When  they  consent  to  own  me  of  their  kin, 
And  condescend  to  me,  and  call  me  cousin. 

JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL. 

IT  is  one  of  the  enjoyable  features  of 
bird  study,  as  in  truth  it  is  of  life  in  gen- 
eral, that  so  many  of  its  pleasantest  expe- 
riences have  not  to  be  sought  after,  but 
befall  us  by  the  way  ;  like  rare  and  beauti- 
ful flowers,  which  are  never  more  welcome 
than  when  they  smile  upon  us  unexpect- 
edly from  the  roadside. 

One  May  morning  I  had  spent  an  hour 
in  a  small  wood  where  I  am  accustomed  to 
saunter,  and,  coming  out  into  the  road  on 
my  way  home  again,  fell  in  with  a  friend. 
"  Would  n't  you  like  to  see  an  oven- 
bird's  nest  ?  "  I  inquired.  He  assented,  and 
turning  back,  I  piloted  him  to  the  spot. 
The  little  mother  sat  motionless,  just 
within  the  door  of  her  comfortable,  roofed 
house,  watching  us  intently,  but  all  uncon- 


A    WOODLAND  INTIMATE.  23 

scious,  it  is  to  be  feared,  of  our  admiring 
comments  upon  her  ingenuity  and  courage. 
Seeing  her  thus  devoted  to  her  charge,  I 
wondered  anew  whether  she  could  be  so  in- 
nocent as  not  to  know  that  one  of  the  eggs 
on  which  she  brooded  with  such  assiduity 
was  not  her  own,  but  had  been  foisted  upon 
her  by  a  faithless  cow-bird.  To  me,  I  must 
confess,  it  is  inexplicable  that  any  bird 
should  be  either  so  unobservant  as  not  to 
recognize  a  foreign  egg  at  sight,  or  so  easy- 
tempered  as  not  to  insist  on  straightway 
being  rid  of  it ;  though  this  is  no  more  in- 
scrutable, it  may  be,  than  for  another  bird 
persistently,  and  as  it  were  on  principle,  to 
cast  her  own  offspring  upon  the  protection 
of  strangers ;  while  this,  in  turn,  is  not  more 
mysterious  than  ten  thousand  every-day  oc- 
currences all  about  us.  After  all,  it  is  a 
wise  man  that  knows  what  to  wonder  at ; 
while  the  wiser  he  grows  the  stronger  is 
likely  to  become  his  conviction  that,  little 
as  may  be  known,  nothing  is  absolutely 
unknowable  ;  that  in  the  world,  as  in  its 
Author,  there  is  probably  "  no  darkness  at 
all,"  save  as  daylight  is  dark  to  owls  and 
bats.  I  did  not  see  the  oven-bird's  eggs  at 


24  A    WOODLAND  INTIMATE. 

this  time,  however,  my  tender-hearted  com- 
panion protesting  that  their  faithful  custo- 
dian should  not  be  disturbed  for  the  grati- 
fication of  his  curiosity.  So  we  bade  her 
adieu,  and  went  in  pursuit  of  a  solitary 
vireo,  just  then  overheard  singing  not  far 
off.  A  few  paces  brought  him  into  sight, 
and  as  we  came  nearer  and  nearer  he  stood 
quite  still  on  a  dead  bough,  in  full  view, 
singing  all  the  while.  When  my  friend 
had  looked  him  over  to  his  satisfaction,  — 
never  having  met  with  such  a  specimen  be- 
fore, —  I  set  myself  to  examine  the  lower 
branches  of  the  adjacent  trees,  feeling  no 
doubt,  from  the  bird's  significant  behavior, 
that  his  nest  must  be  somewhere  in  the  im- 
mediate neighborhood.  Sure  enough,  it  was 
soon  discovered,  hanging  from  near  the  end 
of  an  oak  limb ;  a  typical  vireo  cup,  sus- 
pended within  the  angle  of  two  horizontal 
twigs,  with  bits  of  newspaper  wrought  into 
its  structure,  and  trimmed  outwardly  with 
some  kind  of  white  silky  substance.  The 
female  was  in  it  (this,  too,  we  might  have 
foreseen  with  reasonable  certainty)  ;  but 
when  she  flew  off,  it  appeared  that  as  yet 
no  eggs  were  laid.  The  couple  manifested 


A    WOODLAND  INTIMATE.  25 

scarce  any  uneasiness  at  our  investigations, 
and  we  soon  came  away ;  stopping,  as  we 
left  the  wood,  to  spy  out  the  nest  of  a  scar- 
let tanager,  the  feminine  builder  of  which 
was  just  then  busy  with  giving  it  some  fin- 
ishing touches. 

It  had  been  a  pleasant  stroll,  I  thought, 
—  nothing  more ;  but  it  proved  to  be  the 
beginning  of  an  adventure  which,  to  me  at 
least,  was  in  the  highest  degree  novel  and 
interesting. 

I  ought,  perhaps,  to  premise  that  the  sol- 
itary vireo  (called  also  the  blue-headed  vi- 
reo  and  the  blue-headed  greenlet)  is  strictly 
a  bird  of  the  woods.  It  belongs  to  a  dis- 
tinctively American  family,  and  is  one  of 
five  species  which  are  more  or  less  abun- 
dant as  summer  residents  in  Eastern  Mas- 
sachusetts, being  itself  in  most  places  the 
least  numerous  of  the  five,  and,  with  the 
possible  exception  of  the  white -eye,  the 
most  retiring.  My  own  hunting-grounds 
happen  to  be  one  of  its  favorite  resorts 
(there  is  none  better  in  the  State,  I  suspect), 
so  that  I  am  pretty  certain  of  having  two 
or  three  pairs  under  my  eye  every  season, 
within  a  radius  of  half  a  mile.  I  have 


26  A    WOODLAND  INTIMATE. 

found  a  number  of  nests,  also,  but  till  this 
year  had  never  observed  any  marked  pecu- 
liarity of  the  birds  as  to  timidity  or  fear- 
lessness. Nor  do  I  now  imagine  that  any 
such  strong  race  peculiarity  exists.  What 
I  am  to  describe  I  suppose  to  be  nothing 
more  than  an  accidental  and  unaccount- 
able idiosyncrasy  of  the  particular  bird  in 
question.  Such  freaks  of  temperament  are 
more  or  less  familiar  to  all  field  natural- 
ists, and  may  be  taken  as  extreme  develop- 
ments of  that  individuality  which  seems  to 
be  the  birthright  of  every  living  creature, 
no  matter  how  humble.  At  this  very  mo- 
ment I  recall  a  white  -  throated  sparrow, 
overtaken  some  years  ago  in  an  unfre- 
quented road,  whose  tameness  was  entirely 
unusual,  and,  indeed,  little  short  of  ridicu- 
lous. 

Three  or  four  days  after  the  walk  just 
now  mentioned  I  was  again  in  the  same 
wood,  and  went  past  the  vireos'  nest,  pay- 
ing no  attention  to  it  beyond  noting  that 
one  of  the  birds,  presumed  to  be  the  female, 
was  on  duty.  But  the  next  morning,  as  I 
saw  her  again,  it  occurred  to  me  to  make 
an  experiment.  So,  quitting  the  path  sud- 


A    WOODLAKD  INTIMATE.  27 

denly,  I  walked  as  rapidly  as  possible 
straight  up  to  the  nest,  a  distance  of  per- 
haps three  rods,  giving  her  no  chance  to 
slip  off,  with  the  hope  of  escaping  unper- 
ceived.  The  plan  worked  to  a  charm,  or 
so  I  flattered  myself.  When  I  came  to  a 
standstill  my  eyes  were  within  a  foot  or 
two  of  hers ;  in  fact,  I  could  get  no  nearer 
without  running  my  head  against  the 
branch;  yet  she  sat  quietly,  apparently 
without  a  thought  of  being  driven  from  her 
post,  turning  her  head  this  way  and  that, 
but  making  no  sound,  and  showing  not  the 
least  sign  of  anything  like  distress.  A 
mosquito  buzzed  about  my  face,  and  I 
brushed  it  off.  Still  she  sat  undisturbed. 
Then  I  placed  my  hand  against  the  bottom 
of  the  nest.  At  this  she  half  rose  to  her 
feet,  craning  her  neck  to  see  what  was  going 
on,  but  the  moment  I  let  go  she  settled 
back  upon  her  charge.  Surprised  and  de- 
lighted, I  had  no  heart  to  pursue  the  mat- 
ter further,  and  turned  away ;  declaring  to 
myself  that,  notwithstanding  I  had  half 
promised  a  scientific  friend  the  privilege  of 
"  taking "  the  nest,  such  a  thing  should 
now  never  be  done  with  my  consent.  Be- 


28  A   WOODLAND  INTIMATE. 

fore  I  could  betray  a  confidence  like  this, 
I  must  be  a  more  zealous  ornithologist  or 
a  more  unfeeling  man,  —  or  both  at  once. 
Science  ought  to  be  encouraged,  of  course, 
but  not  to  the  outraging  of  honor  and  com- 
mon decency. 

On  the  following  day,  after  repeating 
such  amenities  as  I  had  previously  indulged 
in,  I  put  forth  my  hand  as  if  to  stroke  the 
bird's  plumage  ;  seeing  which,  she  raised 
her  beak  threateningly  and  emitted  a  very 
faint  deprecatory  note,  which  would  have 
been  inaudible  at  the  distance  of  a  few 
yards.  At  the  same  time  she  opened  and 
shut  her  bill,  not  snappishly,  but  slowly,  — 
a  nervous  action,  simply,  it  seemed  to  me. 

Twenty-four  hours  later  I  called  again, 
and  was  so  favorably  received  that,  besides 
taking  hold  of  the  nest,  as  before,  I  brushed 
her  tail  feathers  softly.  Then  I  put  my 
hand  to  her  head,  on  which  she  pecked  my 
finger  in  an  extremely  pretty,  gentle  way, — 
more  like  kissing  than  biting,  —  and  made 
use  of  the  low  murmuring  sounds  just  now 
spoken  of.  Her  curiosity  was  plainly  wide 
awake.  She  stretched  her  neck  to  the  ut- 
most to  look  under  the  nest,  getting  upon 


A   WOODLAND  INTIMATE.  29 

her  feet  for  the  purpose,  till  I  expected 
every  moment  to  see  her  slip  away ;  but 
presently  she  grew  quiet  again,  and  I  with- 
drew, leaving  her  in  possession. 

By  this  time  a  daily  interview  had  come 
to  be  counted  upon  as  a  matter  of  course, 
by  me  certainly,  and,  for  aught  I  know, 
by  the  vireo  as  well.  On  my  next  visit  I 
stroked  the  back  of  her  head,  allowed  her 
to  nibble  the  tip  of  my  finger,  and  was 
greatly  pleased  with  the  matter-of-fact  man- 
ner in  which  she  captured  an  insect  from 
the  side  of  the  nest,  while  leaning  out  to 
oversee  my  manoeuvres.  Finally,  on  my 
offering  to  lay  my  left  hand  upon  her,  she 
quit  her  seat,  and  perched  upon  a  twig, 
fronting  me ;  and  when  I  put  my  finger  to 
her  bill  she  flew  off.  Even  now  she  made 
no  outcry,  however,  but  fell  immediately  to 
singing  in  tones  of  absolute  good -humor, 
and  before  I  had  gone  four  rods  from  the 
tree  was  back  again  upon  the  eggs.  Of 
these,  I  should  have  said,  there  were  four, 
—  the  regular  complement,  —  all  her  own. 
Expert  as  cow-birds  are  at  running  a  block- 
ade, it  would  have  puzzled  the  shrewdest  of 
them  to  smuggle  anything  into  a  nest  so 
sedulously  guarded. 


80  A   WOODLAND  INTIMATE. 

Walking  homeward,  I  bethought  myself 
how  foolish  I  had  been  not  to  offer  my  little 
protegee  something  to  eat.  Accordingly,  in 
the  morning,  before  starting  out,  I  filled  a 
small  box  with  leaves  from  the  garden 
rose-bush,  which,  as  usual,  had  plenty  of 
plant-lice  upon  it.  Armed  in  this  manner, 
as  perhaps  no  ornithologist  ever  went  armed 
before,  —  I  approached  the  nest,  and  to  my 
delight  saw  it  still  unharmed  (I  never  came 
in  sight  of  it  without  dreading  to  find  it 
pillaged)  ;  but  just  as  I  was  putting  my 
hand  into  my  pocket  for  the  box,  off  started 
the  bird.  Here  was  a  disappointment  in- 
deed ;  but  in  the  next  breath  I  assured  my- 
self that  the  recreant  must  be  the  male,  who 
for  once  had  been  spelling  his  companion. 
So  I  fell  back  a  little,  and  in  a  minute  or 
less  one  of  the  pair  went  on  to  brood.  This 
was  the  mother,  without  question,  and  I 
again  drew  near.  True  enough,  she  wel- 
comed me  with  all  her  customary  polite- 
ness. No  matter  what  her  husband  might 
say,  she  knew  better  than  to  distrust  an 
inoffensive,  kind -hearted  gentleman  like 
myself.  Had  I  not  proved  myself  such 
time  and  again  ?  So  I  imagined  her  to  be 


A    WOODLAND  INTIMATE.  31 

reasoning.  At  all  events,  she  sat  quiet  and 
unconcerned ;  apparently  more  unconcerned 
than  her  visitor,  for,  to  tell  the  truth,  I  was 
so  anxious  for  the  success  of  this  crowning 
experiment  that  I  actually  found  myself 
trembling.  However,  I  opened  my  store  of 
dainties,  wet  the  tip  of  my  little  finger,  took 
up  an  insect,  and  held  it  to  her  mandibles. 
For  a  moment  she  seemed  not  to  know 
what  it  was,  but  soon  she  picked  it  off  and 
swallowed  it.  The  second  one  she  seized 
promptly,  and  the  third  she  reached  out  to 
anticipate,  exactly  as  a  tame  canary  might 
have  done.  Before  I  could  pass  her  the 
fourth  she  stepped  out  of  the  nest,  and 
took  a  position  upon  the  branch  beside  it ; 
but  she  accepted  the  morsel,  none  the  less. 
And  an  extremely  pretty  sight  it  was,  —  a 
wild  wood  bird  perched  upon  a  twig  and 
feeding  from  a  man's  finger  ! 

She  would  not  stay  for  more,  but  flew  to 
another  bough ;  whereupon  I  resumed  my 
ramble,  and,  as  usual,  she  covered  the  eggs 
again  before  I  could  get  out  of  sight.  When 
I  returned,  in  half  an  hour  or  thereabouts,  I 
proffered  her  a  mosquito,  which  I  had  saved 
for  that  purpose.  She  took  it,  but  presently 


32  A    WOODLAND  INTIMATE. 

let  it  drop.  It  was  not  to  her  taste,  prob- 
ably, for  shortly  afterward  she  caught  one 
herself,  as  it  came  fluttering  near,  and  dis- 
carded that  also ;  but  she  ate  the  remain- 
der of  ray  rose-bush  parasites,  though  I  was 
compelled  to  coax  her  a  little.  Seemingly, 
she  felt  that  our  proceedings  were  more  or 
less  irregular,  if  not  positively  out  of  charac- 
ter. Not  that  she  betrayed  any  symptoms 
of  nervousness  or  apprehension,  but  she  re- 
peatedly turned  away  her  head,  as  if  deter- 
mined to  refuse  all  further  overtures.  In 
the  end,  nevertheless,  as  I  have  said,  she  ate 
the  very  last  insect  I  had  to  give  her. 

During  the  meal  she  did  something  which 
as  a  display  of  nonchalance  was  really 
amazing.  The  eggs  got  misplaced,  in  the 
course  of  her  twisting  about,  and  after  vainly 
endeavoring  to  rearrange  them  with  her 
feet,  as  I  had  seen  her  do  on  several  occa- 
sions, she  ducked  her  head  into  the  nest, 
clean  out  of  sight  under  her  feathers,  and 
set  matters  to  rights  with  her  beak.  I  was 
as  near  to  her  as  I  could  well  be,  without 
having  her  actually  in  my  hand,  yet  she 
deliberately  put  herself  entirely  off  guard, 
apparently  without  the  slightest  misgiving ! 


A    WOODLAND  INTIMATE.  33 

Fresh  from  this  adventure,  and  all  aglow 
with  pleasurable  excitement,  I  met  a  friend 
in  the  city,  a  naturalist  of  repute,  and  one 
of  the  founders  of  the  American  Ornitholo- 
gists' Union.  Of  course  I  regaled  him  with 
an  account  of  my  wonderful  vireo  (he  was 
the  man  to  whom  I  had  half  promised  the 
nest)  ;  and  on  his  expressing  a  wish  to  see 
her,  I  invited  him  out  for  the  purpose  that 
very  afternoon.  I  smile  to  remember  how 
full  of  fears  I  was,  as  he  promptly  accepted 
the  invitation.  The  bird,  I  declared  to  my- 
self, would  be  like  the  ordinary  baby,  who, 
as  everybody  knows,  is  never  so  stupid  as 
when  its  fond  mother  would  make  a  show 
of  it  before  company.  Yesterday  it  was  so 
bright  and  cunning  !  Never  was  baby  like 
it.  Yesterday  it  did  such  and  such  unheard- 
of  things  ;  but  to-day,  alas,  it  will  do  noth- 
ing at  all.  However,  I  put  on  a  bold  face, 
filled  my  pen -box  with  rose-leaves,  ex- 
changed my  light-colored  hat  for  the  black 
one  in  which  my  pet  had  hitherto  seen  me, 
furnished  my  friend  with  a  field-glass,  and 
started  with  him  for  the  wood.  The  nest 
was  occupied  (I  believe  I  never  found  it 
otherwise),  and,  stationing  my  associate  in 


34  A   WOODLAND  INTIMATE. 

a  favorable  position,  I  marched  up  to  it, 
when,  lo,  the  bird  at  once  took  wing.  This 
was  nothing  to  be  disconcerted  about,  the 
very  promptness  of  the  action  making  it 
certain  that  the  sitter  must  have  been  the 
male.  The  pair  were  both  in  sight,  and  the 
female  would  doubtless  soon  fill  the  place 
which  her  less  courageous  lord  had  deserted. 
So  it  turned  out,  and  within  a  minute 
everything  was  in  readiness  for  a  second  es- 
say. This  proved  successful.  The  first 
insect  was  instantly  laid  hold  of,  whereupon 
I  heard  a  suppressed  exclamation  from  be- 
hind the  field-glass.  When  I  rejoined  my 
friend,  having  exhausted  my  supplies,  noth- 
ing would  do  but  he  must  try  something  of 
the  kind  himself.  Accordingly,  seizing  my 
hat,  which  dropped  down  well  over  his  ears, 
he  made  up  to  the  tree.  The  bird  pecked 
his  finger  familiarly,  and  before  long  he 
came  rushing  back  to  the  path,  exclaiming 
that  he  must  find  something  with  which  to 
feed  her.  After  overturning  two  or  three 
stones  he  uncovered  an  ant's  nest,  and 
moistening  his  forefinger,  thrust  it  into  a 
mass  of  eggs.  With  these  he  hastened  to 
the  vireo.  She  helped  herself  to  them  ea- 


A    WOODLAND  INTIMATE.  35 

gerly,  and  I  could  hear  him  counting,  "  One, 
two,  three,  four,"  and  so  on,  as  she  ate 
mouthful  after  mouthful. 

Now,  then,  he  wished  to  examine  the 
contents  of  the  nest,  especially  as  it  was  the 
first  of  its  kind  that  he  had  ever  seen  out- 
of-doors.  But  the  owner  was  set  upon  not 
giving  him  the  opportunity.  He  stroked 
her  head,  brushed  her  wings,  and,  as  my 
note-book  puts  it,  "  poked  her  generally ;  " 
and  still  she  kept  her  place.  Finally,  as  he 
stood  on  one  side  of  her  and  I  on  the  other, 
we  pushed  the  branch  down,  down,  till  she 
was  fairly  under  our  noses.  Then  she 
stepped  off ;  but  even  now,  it  was  only  to 
alight  on  the  very  next  twig,  and  face  us 
calmly  !  and  we  had  barely  started  away 
before  we  saw  her  again  on*  duty.  Brave 
bird  !  My  friend  was  exceedingly  pleased, 
and  I  not  less  so ;  though  the  fact  of  her 
making  no  difference  between  us  was  some- 
thing of  a  shock  to  my  self-conceit,  en- 
deavor as  I  might  to  believe  that  she  had 
welcomed  him,  if  not  in  my  stead,  yet  at 
least  as  my  friend.  What  an  odd  pair  we 
must  have  looked  in  her  eyes  !  Possibly  she 
had  heard  of  the  new  movement  for  the  pro- 


36  A    WOODLAND  INTIMATE. 

tection  of  American  song-birds,  and  took  us 
for  representatives  of  the  Audubon  Society. 

Desiring  to  make  some  fresh  experiment, 
I  set  out  the  next  morning  with  a  little 
water  and  a  teaspoon,  in  addition  to  my 
ordinary  outfit  of  rose-leaves.  The  mother 
bird  was  at  home,  and  without  hesitation 
dipped  her  bill  into  the  water,  —  the  very 
first  solitary  vireo,  I  dare  be  bound,  that 
ever  drank  out  of  a  silver  spoon  !  After- 
wards I  gave  her  the  insects,  of  which  she 
swallowed  twenty-four  as  fast  as  I  could 
pick  them  up.  Evidently  she  was  hungry, 
and  appreciated  my  attentions.  There  was 
nothing  whatever  of  the  coquettishness 
which  she  had  sometimes  displayed.  On 
the  contrary,  she  leaned  forward  to  wel- 
come the  tidbits,  one  by  one,  quite  as  if  it 
were  the  most  natural  thing  in  the  world 
for  birds  to  be  waited  upon  in  this  fashion 
by  their  human  admirers.  Toward  the  end, 
however,  a  squirrel  across  the  way  set  up 
a  loud  bark,  and  she  grew  nervous ;  so  that 
when  it  came  to  the  twenty-fifth  louse, 
which  was  the  last  I  could  find,  she  was 
too  much  preoccupied  to  care  for  it. 

At  this  point  a  mosquito  stung  my  neck, 


A    WOODLAND  INTIMATE.  37 

and,  killing  it,  I  held  it  before  her.  She 
snapped  at  it  in  a  twinkling,  but  retained 
it  between  her  mandibles.  Whether  she 
would  finally  have  swallowed  it  I  am  not 
able  to  say  (and  so  must  leave  undecided  a 
very  interesting  and  important  question  in 
economic  ornithology),  for  just  then  I  re- 
membered a  piece  of  banana  with  which  I 
had  been  meaning  to  tempt  her.  Of  this 
she  tasted  at  once,  and,  as  I  thought,  found 
it  good  ;  for  she  transfixed  it  with  her  bill, 
and,  quitting  her  seat,  carried  it  away  and 
deposited  it  on  a  branch.  But  instead  of 
eating  it,  as  I  expected  to  see  her  do,  she 
fell  to  fly-catching,  while  her  mate  promptly 
appeared,  and  as  soon  as  opportunity  of- 
fered took  his  turn  at  brooding.  My  eyes, 
meanwhile,  had  not  kept  the  two  distinct, 
and,  supposing  that  the  mother  had  re- 
turned, I  stepped  up  to  offer  her  another 
drink,  but  had  no  sooner  filled  the  spoon 
than  the  fellow  took  flight.  At  this  the 
female  came  to  the  rescue  again,  and  un- 
hesitatingly entered  the  nest.  It  was  a 
noble  reproof,  I  thought;  well  deserved, 
and  very  handsomely  administered.  "  Oh, 
you  cowardly  dear,"  I  fancied  her  saying, 


38  A    WOODLAND  INTIMATE. 

"  he  '11  not  hurt  you.  See  me,  now  !  I  'm 
not  afraid.  He  's  queer,  I  know ;  but  he 
means  well." 

I  should  have  mentioned  that  while  the 
squirrel  was  barking  she  uttered  some  very 
pretty  sotto  voce  notes  of  two  kinds,  —  one 
like  what  I  have  often  heard,  and  one  en- 
tirely novel. 

A  man  ought  to  have  lived  with  such  a 
creature,  year  in  and  out,  and  seen  it  under 
every  variety  of  mood  and  condition,  before 
imagining  himself  possessed  of  its  entire 
vocabulary.  For  who  doubts  that  birds, 
also,  have  their  more  sacred  and  intimate 
feelings,  their  esoteric  doctrines  and  ex- 
periences, which  are  not  proclaimed  upon 
the  tree-top,  but  spoken  under  breath,  in 
all  but  inaudible  twitters  ?  Certainly  this 
pet  of  mine  on  sundry  occasions  whispered 
into  my  ear  things  which  I  had  never  heard 
before,  and  as  to  the  purport  of  which,  in 
my  ignorance  of  the  vireonian  tongue,  I 
could  only  conjecture.  For  my  own  part, 
I  am  through  with  thinking  that  I  have 
mastered  all  the  notes  of  any  bird,  even  the 
commonest. 

I   wondered,    by   the   bye,    whether  my 


A   WOODLAND  INTIMATE.  39 

speech  was  as  unintelligible  to  the  greenlet 
as  hers  was  to  me.  I  trust,  at  all  events, 
that  she  divined  a  meaning  in  the  tones, 
however  she  may  have  missed  the  words ; 
for  I  never  called  without  telling  her  how 
much  I  admired  her  spirit.  She  was  all 
that  a  bird  ought  to  be,  I  assured  her,  good, 
brave,  and  handsome;  and  should  never 
suffer  harm,  if  I  could  help  it.  Alas !  al- 
though, as  the  apostle  says,  I  loved  "  not  in 
word,  but  in  deed  and  in  truth,"  yet  when 
the  pinch  came  I  was  somewhere  else,  and 
all  my  promises  went  for  nothing. 

Our  intercourse  was  nearing  its  end.  It 
was  already  the  10th  of  June,  and  on  the 
12th  I  was  booked  for  a  journey.  During 
my  last  visit  but  one  it  gratified  me  not 
a  little  to  perceive  that  the  wife's  example 
and  reproof  had  begun  to  tell  upon  her 
mate.  He  happened  to  be  in  the  nest  as  I 
came  up,  and  sat  so  unconcernedly  while  I 
made  ready  to  feed  him  that  I  took  it  for 
granted  I  was  dealing  with  the  female,  till 
at  the  last  moment  he  slipped  away.  I 
stepped  aside  for  perhaps  fifteen  feet,  and 
waited  briefly,  both  birds  in  sight.  Then 
the  lady  took  her  turn  at  sitting,  and  I 


40  A   WOODLAND  INTIMATE. 

proceeded  to  try  again.  She  behaved  like 
herself,  made  free  with  a  number  of  insects, 
and  then,  all  at  once,  for  no  reason  that  I 
could  guess  at,  she  sprang  out  of  the  nest, 
and  alighted  on  the  ground  within  two 
yards  of  my  feet,  and  almost  before  I  could 
realize  what  had  occurred  was  up  in  the 
tree.  I  had  my  eyes  upon  her,  determined, 
if  possible,  to  keep  the  pair  distinct,  and  suc- 
ceeded, as  I  believed,  in  so  doing.  Pretty 
soon  the  male  (unless  I  was  badly  de- 
ceived) went  to  the  nest  with  a  large  in- 
sect in  his  bill,  and  stood  for  some  time  be- 
side it,  eating  and  chattering.  Finally  he 
dropped  upon  the  eggs,  and,  seeing  him 
grown  thus  unsuspicious,  I  thought  best  to 
test  him  once  more.  This  time  he  kept  his 
seat,  and  with  great  condescension  ate  two 
of  my  plant-lice.  But  there  he  made  an 
end.  Again  and  again  I  put  the  third  one 
to  his  mouth  ;  but  he  settled  back  obsti- 
nately into  the  nest,  and  would  have  none 
of  it.  For  once,  as  it  seemed,  he  could  be 
brave ;  but  he  was  not  to  be  coddled,  or 
treated  like  a  baby  —  or  a  female.  There 
were  good  reasons,  of  course,  for  his  being 
less  hungry  than  his  mate,  and  conse- 


A   WOODLAND  INTIMATE.  41 

quently  less  appreciative  of  such  favors  as 
I  had  to  bestow ;  but  it  was  very  amusing 
to  see  how  tightly  he  shut  his  bill,  as  if  his 
mind  were  made  up,  and  no  power  on  earth 
should  shake  it. 

If  any  inquisitive  person  raises  the  ques- 
tion whether  I  am  absolutely  certain  of 
this  bird's  being  the  male,  I  must  answer 
in  the  negative.  The  couple  were  dressed 
alike,  as  far  as  I  could  make  out,  save  that 
the  female  was  much  the  more  brightly 
washed  with  yellow  on  the  sides  of  the 
body  ;  and  my  present  discrimination  of 
them  was  based  upon  close  attention  to 
this  point,  as  well  as  upon  my  careful  and 
apparently  successful  effort  not  to  confuse 
the  two,  after  the  one  which  I  knew  to  be 
the  female  (the  one,  that  is,  which  had 
done  most  of  the  sitting,  and  had  all  along 
been  so  very  familiar)  had  joined  the  other 
among  the  branches.  I  had  no  downright 
proof,  it  must  be  acknowledged,  nor  could 
I  have  had  any  without  killing  and  dissect- 
ing the  bird  ;  but  my  own  strong  convic- 
tion was  and  is  that  the  male  had  grown 
fearless  by  observing  my  treatment  of  his 
spouse,  but  from  some  difference  of  taste, 


42  A   WOODLAND  INTIMATE. 

or,  more  probably,  for  lack  of  appetite, 
found  himself  less  taken  than  she  had  com- 
monly been  with  my  rather  meagre  bill  of 
fare. 

This  persuasion,  it  cannot  be  denied, 
was  considerably  shaken  the  next  morning, 
when  I  paid  my  friends  a  parting  call.  The 
father  bird,  forgetful  of  his  own  good  ex- 
ample of  the  day  before,  and  mindless  of 
all  the  proprieties  of  such  a  farewell  occa- 
sion, slipped  incontinently  from  the  eggs 
just  as  I  was  removing  the  cover  from  my 
pen-box.  Well,  he  missed  the  last  oppor- 
tunity he  was  likely  ever  to  have  of  break- 
fasting from  a  human  finger.  So  ignorant 
are  birds,  no  less  than  men,  of  the  day  of 
their  visitation  !  Before  I  could  get  away, 
—  while  I  was  yet  within  two  yards  of  the 
nest,  —  the  other  bird  hastened  to  occupy 
the  vacant  place.  She  knew  what  was  due 
to  so  considerate  and  well-tried  a  friend, 
if  her  partner  did  not.  The  little  darling  ! 
As  soon  as  she  was  well  in  position  I 
stepped  to  her  side,  opened  my  treasures, 
and  gave  her,  one  by  one,  twenty-six  insects 
(all  I  had),  which  she  took  with  avidity, 
reaching  forward  again  and  again  to  antici- 


A    WOODLAND  INTIMATE.  43 

pate  my  motions.  Then  I  stole  a  last  look 
at  the  four  pretty  eggs,  having  almost  to 
force  her  from  the  nest  for  that  purpose, 
bade  her  good-by,  and  came  away,  sorry 
enough  to  leave  her  ;  forecasting,  as  I  could 
not  help  doing,  the  slight  probability  of 
finding  her  again  on  my  return,  and  pictur- 
ing to  myself  all  the  sweet,  motherly  ways 
she  would  be  certain  to  develop  as  soon  as 
the  little  ones  were  hatched. 

Within  an  hour  I  was  speeding  toward 
the  Green  Mountains.  There,  in  those  an- 
cient Vermont  forests,  I  saw  and  heard 
other  solitary  vireos,  but  none  that  treated 
me  as  my  Melrose  pair  had  done.  Noble 
and  gentle  spirits  !  though  I  were  to  live  a 
hundred  years,  I  should  never  see  their  like 
again. 

The  remainder  of  the  story  is,  unhappily, 
soon  told.  I  was  absent  a  fortnight,  and  on 
getting  back  went  at  once  to  the  sacred 
oak.  Alas  !  there  was  nothing  but  a  sev- 
ered branch  to  show  where  the  vireos'  nest 
had  hung.  The  cut  looked  recent ;  I  was 
thankful  for  that.  Perhaps  the  "  collector," 
whoever  he  was,  had  been  kind  enough  to 
wait  till  the  owners  of  the  house  were  done 


44  A    WOODLAND  INTIMATE. 

with  it,  before  he  carried  it  away.  Let  us 
hope  so,  at  all  events,  for  the  peace  of  his 
own  soul,  as  well  as  for  the  sake  of  the 
birds. 


AN   OLD  ROAD. 

Methinks  here  one  may,  without  much  molestation,  be 
thinking  what  he  is,  whence  he  came,  what  he  has  done, 
and  to  what  the  King  has  called  him. — BUNYAN. 

I  FALL  in  with  persons,  now  and  then, 
who  profess  to  care  nothing  for  a  path  when 
walking  in  the  woods.  They  do  not  choose 
to  travel  in  other  people's  footsteps,  —  nay, 
nor  even  in  their  own,  —  but  count  it  their 
mission  to  lay  out  a  new  road  every  time 
they  go  afield.  They  are  welcome  to  their 
freak.  My  own  genius  for  adventure  is  less 
highly  developed ;  and,  to  be  frank,  I  have 
never  learned  to  look  upon  affectation  and 
whim  as  synonymous  with  originality.  In 
my  eyes,  it  is  nothing  against  a  hill  that 
other  men  have  climbed  it  before  me  ;  and 
if  their  feet  have  worn  a  trail,  so  much  the 
better.  I  not  only  reach  the  summit  more 
easily,  but  have  company  on  the  way,  — 
company  none  the  less  to  my  mind,  per- 
haps, for  being  silent  and  invisible.  It  is 


46  AN  OLD  ROAD. 

well  enough  to  strike  into  the  trackless  for- 
est once  in  a  while ;  to  wander  you  know 
not  whither,  and  come  out  you  know  not 
where ;  to  lie  down  in  a  strange  place,  and 
for  an  hour  imagine  yourself  the  explorer 
of  a  new  continent :  but  if  the  mind  be 
awake  (as,  alas,  too  often  it  is  not),  you 
may  walk  where  you  will,  in  never  so  well 
known  a  corner,  and  you  will  see  new 
things,  and  think  new  thoughts,  and  return 
to  your  house  a  new  man,  which,  I  venture 
to  believe,  is  after  all  the  main  considera- 
tion. Indeed,  if  your  stirring  abroad  is  to 
be  more  than  mere  muscular  exercise,  you 
will  find  a  positive  advantage  in  making 
use  of  some  well-worn  and  familiar  path. 
The  feet  will  follow  it  mechanically,  and 
so  the  mind  —  that  is,  the  walker  himself 
—  will  be  left  undistracted.  That,  to  my 
thinking,  is  the  real  tour  of  discovery 
wherein  one  keeps  to  the  beaten  road,  looks 
at  the  customary  sights,  but  brings  home  a 
new  idea. 

There  are  inward  moods,  as  well  as  out- 
ward conditions,  in  which  an  old,  half-dis- 
used, bush-bordered  road  becomes  the  saun- 
terer's  paradise.  I  have  several  such  in  my 


AN   OLD  ROAD.  47 

eye  at  this  moment,  but  especially  one,  in 
which  my  feet,  years  ago,  grew  to  feel  at 
home.  It  is  an  almost  ideal  loitering  place, 
or  would  be,  if  only  it  were  somewhat 
longer.  How  many  hundreds  of  times 
have  I  traveled  it,  spring  and  summer, 
autumn  and  winter  !  As  I  go  over  it  now, 
the  days  of  my  youth  come  back  to  me, 
clothed  all  of  them  in  that  soft,  benignant 
light  which  nothing  but  distance  can  be- 
stow, whether  upon  hills  or  days.  This 
gracious  effect  is  heightened,  no  doubt,  by 
the  fact  that  for  a  good  while  past  my  visits 
to  the  place  have  been  only  occasional. 
Memory  and  imagination  are  true  yoke- 
fellows, and  between  them  are  always  pre- 
paring some  new  pleasure  for  us,  as  often 
as  we  allow  them  opportunity.  The  other 
day,  for  instance,  as  I  came  to  the  top  of 
the  hill  just  beyond  the  river,  I  turned  sud- 
denly to  the  right,  looking  for  an  old  pear- 
tree.  I  had  not  thought  of  it  for  years,  and 
the  more  I  have  since  tried  to  recall  its 
appearance  and  exact  whereabouts,  the  less 
confident  have  I  grown  that  it  ever  had  any 
material  existence ;  but  somehow,  just  at 
that  moment  my  mouth  seemed  to  recollect 


48  AN  OLD  ROAD. 

it ;  and  in  general  I  have  come  to  put  faith 
in  such  involuntary  and,  if  I  may  say  so, 
sensible  joggings  of  the  memory.  I  wonder 
whether  the  tree  ever  was  there  —  or  any- 
where. At  all  events,  the  thought  of  it 
gave  me  for  the  moment  a  pleasure  more 
real  than  any  taste  in  the  mouth,  were  it 
never  so  sweet.  Thank  fortune,  imagina- 
tive delights  are  as  far  as  possible  from 
being  imaginary. 

The  river  just  mentioned  runs  under  the 
road,  and,  as  will  readily  be  inferred,  is  one 
of  its  foremost  attractions.  I  speak  of  it 
as  a  "  river  "  with  some  misgivings.  It  is 
a  rather  large  brook,  or  a  very  small  river ; 
but  a  man  who  has  never  been  able  to  leap 
across  it  has  perhaps  no  right  to  deny  it  the 
more  honorable  appellation.  Its  source  is 
a  spacious  and  beautiful  sheet  of  water, 
which  heretofore  has  been  known  as  a 
"pond,"  but  which  I  should  be  glad  to 
believe  would  hereafter  be  put  upon  the 
maps  as  Lake  Wessagusset.  This  brook  or 
river,  call  it  whichever  you  please,  goes 
meandering  through  the  township  in  a 
northeasterly  direction,  turning  the  wheels 
of  half  a  dozen  mills,  more  or  less,  on  its 


AN  OLD  ROAD.  49 

way ;  a  sluggish  stream,  too  lazy  to  work, 
you  would  think  ;  passing  much  of  its  time 
in  flat,  grassy  meadows,  where  it  idles  along 
as  if  it  realized  that  the  end  of  its  course 
was  near,  and  felt  in  no  haste  to  lose  itself 
in  the  salt  sea.  Out  of  this  stream  I  pulled 
goodly  numbers  of  perch,  pickerel,  shiners, 
flatfish,  and  hornpouts,  while  I  was  still  care- 
less-hearted enough  ("  Heaven  lies  about 
us  in  our  infancy  ")  to  enjoy  this  very  ami- 
able and  semi  -  religious  form  of  "sport;" 
and  as  the  river  intersects  at  least  seven 
roads  that  came  within  my  boyish  beat,  I 
must  have  crossed  it  thousands  of  times ;  in 
addition  to  which  I  have  spent  days  in  pad- 
dling and  bathing  in  it.  Altogether,  it  is 
one  of  my  most  familiar  friends;  and  — 
what  one  cannot  say  of  all  familiar  friends 
—  I  do  not  remember  that  it  ever  served 
me  the  slightest  ill-turn.  It  passes  under 
the  road  of  which  I  am  now  discoursing,  in 
a  double  channel  (the  bridge  being  sup- 
ported midway  by  a  stone  wall),  and  then 
broadens  out  into  an  artificial  shallow, 
through  which  travelers  may  drive  if  they 
will,  to  let  their  horses  drink  out  of  the 
stream.  First  and  last,  I  have  improved 


50  AN  OLD  ROAD 

many  a  shining  hour  on  this  bridge,  leaning 
industriously  over  the  railing.  I  can  see 
the  rocky  bed  at  this  moment,  —  yes,  and 
the  very  shape  and  position  of  some  of  the 
stones,  as  I  saw  them  thirty  years  ago  ; 
especially  of  one,  on  which  we  used  to  bal- 
ance ourselves  to  dip  up  the  water  or  to 
peer  under  the  bridge.  In  those  days,  if 
we  essayed  to  be  uncommonly  adventurous, 
we  waded  through  this  low  and  somewhat 
dark  passage  ;  a  gruesome  proceeding,  as 
we  were  compelled  to  stoop  a  little,  short 
as  we  were,  to  save  our  heads,  while  the 
road,  to  our  imagination,  seemed  in  momen- 
tary danger  of  caving  in  upon  us.  Cour- 
age, like  all  other  human  virtues,  is  but  a 
relative  attribute.  Possibly  the  heroic 
deeds  upon  which  in  our  grown-up  estate 
we  plume  ourselves  are  not  greatly  more 
meritorious  or  wonderful  than  were  some 
of  the  childish  ventures  at  the  recollection 
of  which  we  now  condescend  to  feel 
amused. 

On  the  surface  of  the  brook  flourished 
two  kinds  of  insects,  whose  manner  of  life 
we  never  tired  of  watching.  One  sort  had 
long,  wide-spreading  legs,  and  by  us  were 


AN  OLD  ROAD.  51 

known  as  "  skaters,"  from  their  movements 
(to  this  day,  I  blush  to  confess,  I  have  no 
other  name  for  them)  ;  the  others  were 
flat,  shining,  orbicular  or  oblong,  lead- col- 
ored bugs,  —  "  lucky  bugs  "  I  have  heard 
them  called,  —  and  lay  flat  upon  the  water, 
as  if  quite  without  limbs ;  but  they  darted 
over  the  brook,  and  even  against  the  cur- 
rent, with  noticeable  activity,  and  doubtless 
were  well  supplied  with  paddles.  Once  in 
a  while  we  saw  a  fish  here,  but  only  on 
rare  occasions.  The  great  unfailing  attrac- 
tion of  the  place,  then  as  now,  was  the 
flowing  water,  forever  spending  and  never 
spent.  The  insects  lived  upon  it ;  appar- 
ently they  had  no  power  to  leave  it  for  an 
instant ;  but  they  were  not  carried  away 
by  it.  Happy  creatures !  We,  alas,  sport- 
ing upon  the  river  of  time,  can  neither  dive 
below  the  surface  nor  mount  into  the  ether, 
and,  unlike  the  insects  ("  lucky  bugs,"  in- 
deed ! ),  we  have  no  option  but  to  move 
with  the  tide.  We  have  less  liberty  than 
the  green  flags,  even,  which  grow  in  scat- 
tered tufts  in  the  bed  of  the  brook  ;  whose 
leaves  point  forever  down  stream,  like  so 
many  index  fingers,  as  if  they  said,  "Yes, 


52  AN  OLD  ROAD. 

yes,  that  is  the  way  to  the  sea ;  that  way 
we  all  must  go ; "  while  for  themselves, 
nevertheless,  they  manage  to  hold  on  by 
their  roots,  victorious  even  while  profess- 
ing to  yield.  , 

To  my  mind  the  river  is  alive.  Reason 
about  it  as  I  will,  I  never  can  make  it  oth- 
erwise. I  could  sooner  believe  in  water 
nymphs  than  in  many  existences  which  are 
commonly  treated  as  much  more  certain 
matters  of  fact.  I  could  believe  in  them,  I 
say ;  but  in  reality  I  do  not.  My  coinmun- 
ings  are  not  with  any  haunter  of  the  river, 
but  with  the  living  soul  of  the  river  itself. 
It  lags  under  the  vine-covered  alders,  has- 
tens through  the  bridge,  then  slips  care- 
lessly down  a  little  descent,  where  it  breaks 
into  singing,  then  into  a  mill-pond  and  out 
again,  and  so  on  and  on,  through  one  expe- 
rience after  another ;  and  all  the  time  it  is 
not  dead  water,  but  a  river,  a  thing  of  life 
and  motion.  After  all,  it  is  not  for  me  to 
say  what  is  alive  and  what  dead.  As  yet, 
indeed,  I  do  not  so  much  as  know  what  life 
is.  In  certain  moods,  in  what  I  fondly  call 
my  better  moments,  I  feel  measurably  sure 
of  being  alive  myself;  but  even  on  that 


AN  OLD  ROAD.  53 

point,  for  aught  I  can  tell,  the  brook  may 
entertain  some  private  doubts. 

Just  beyond  the  bridge  is  an  ancient  ap- 
ple orchard.  This  was  already  falling  into 
decay  when  I  was  a  boy,  and  the  many 
years  that  have  elapsed  since  then  have 
nearly  completed  its  demolition  ;  although 
I  dare  say  the  present  generation  of  school- 
boys still  find  it  worth  while  to  clamber 
over  the  wall,  as  they  journey  back  and 
forth.  Probably  it  will  be  no  surprise  to 
the  owner  of  the  place  if  I  tell  him  that 
before  I  was  twelve  years  old  I  knew  the 
taste  of  all  his  apples.  In  fact,  the  orchard 
was  so  sequestered,  so  remote  from  any 
house,  —  especially  from  its  proprietor's,  — 
that  it  hardly  seemed  a  sin  to  rob  it.  It 
was  not  so  much  an  orchard  as  a  bit  of 
woodland  ;  and  besides,  we  never  shook  the 
trees,  but  only  helped  ourselves  to  windfalls ; 
and  it  must  be  a  severe  moralist  who  calls 
that  stealing.  Why  should  the  fruit  drop 
off,  if  not  to  be  picked  up  ?  In  my  time,  at 
all  events,  such  appropriations  were  never 
accounted  robbery,  though  the  providential 
absence  of  the  owner  was  unquestionably  a 
thing  to  be  thankful  for.  He  would  never 


54  AN  OLD  ROAD. 

begrudge  us  the  apples,  of  course,  for  he 
was  rich  and  presumably  generous ;  but  it 
was  quite  as  well  for  him  to  be  somewhere 
else  while  we  were  gathering  up  these  fa- 
vors which  the  winds  of  heaven  had  shaken 
down  for  our  benefit.  There  is  something 
of  the  special  pleader  in  most  of  us,  it  is  to 
be  feared,  whether  young  or  old.  If  we 
are  put  to  it,  we  can  draw  a  very  fine  dis- 
tinction (in  our  own  favor),  no  matter  how 
obtuse  we  may  seem  on  ordinary  occasions. 

Remembering  how  voracious  and  undis- 
criminating  my  juvenile  appetite  was,  I 
cannot  help  wondering  that  I  am  still  alive, 
—  a  feeling  which  I  doubt  not  is  shared  by 
many  a  man  who,  like  myself,  had  a  coun- 
try bringing-up.  We  must  have  been  born 
with  something  more  than  a  spark  of  life, 
else  it  would  certainly  have  been  smothered 
long  ago  by  the  fuel  so  recklessly  heaped 
upon  it.  But  we  lived  out-of-doors,  took 
abundant  exercise,  were  not  studious  over- 
much (as  all  boys  and  girls  are  charged 
with  being  nowadays),  and  had  little  to 
worry  about,  which  may  go  far  to  explain 
the  mystery. 

It  provokes  a  smile   to   reckon   up  the 


AN  OLD  ROAD.  55 

many  places  along  this  old  road  that  are 
indissolubly  connected  in  my  mind  with 
the  question  of  something  to  eat.  At  the 
foot  of  the  orchard  just  now  spoken  of,  for 
example,  is  a  dilapidated  stone  wall,  be- 
tween it  and  the  river.  Over  this,  as  well 
as  over  the  bushes  beside  it,  straggled  a 
small  wild  grape-vine,  bearing  every  year 
a  scanty  crop  of  white  grapes.  These,  to 
our  unsophisticated  palates,  were  delicious, 
if  only  they  got  ripe.  That  was  the  rub ; 
and  as  a  rule  we  gathered  our  share  of 
them  (which  was  all  there  were)  while 
they  were  yet  several  stages  short  of  that 
desirable  consummation,  not  deeming  it 
prudent  to  leave  them  longer,  lest  some 
hungrier  soul  should  get  the  start  of  us. 
Graping,  as  we  called  it,  was  one  of  our 
regular  autumn  industries,  and  there  were 
few  vines  within  the  circle  of  our  perambu- 
lations which  did  not  feel  our  fingers  tug- 
ging at  them  at  least  once  a  year.  Some 
of  them  hung  well  over  the  river;  others 
took  refuge  in  the  tops  of  trees;  but  by 
hook  or  by  crook,  we  usually  got  the  better 
of  such  perversities.  No  doubt  the  fruit 
was  all  bad  enough ;  but  some  of  it  was 


56  AN  OLD  ROAD. 

sweeter  (or  less  sour)  than  other.  Perhaps 
the  best  vine  was  one  that  covered  a  cer- 
tain superannuated  apple-tree,  half  a  mile 
west  of  our  river-side  orchard,  before  men- 
tioned. Here  I  might  have  been  seen  by 
the  hour,  eagerly  yet  cautiously  venturing 
out  upon  the  decayed  and  doubtful  limbs, 
in  quest  of  this  or  that  peculiarly  tempting 
bunch.  These  grapes  were  purple  (how 
well  some  things  are  remembered  !),  and 
were  sweeter  then  than  Isabellas  or  Cataw- 
bas  are  now.  Such  is  the  degeneracy  of 
vines  in  these  modern  days ! 

Altogether  more  important  than  the 
grapes  were  the  huckleberries,  for  which, 
also,  we  four  times  out  of  five  took  this 
same  famous  by-road.  Speaking  roughly, 
I  may  say  that  we  depended  upon  seven 
pastures  for  our  supplies,  and  were  accus- 
tomed to  visit  them  in  something  like  reg- 
ular order.  It  is  kindly  provided  that  huck- 
leberry bushes  have  an  exceptionally  strong 
tendency  to  vary.  We  possessed  no  the- 
ories upon  the  subject,  and  knew  nothing 
of  disputed  questions  about  species  and  va- 
rieties; but  we  were  not  without  a  good 
degree  of  practical  information.  Here  was 


AN   OLD  ROAD.  57 

a  bunch  of  bushes,  for  instance,  covered 
with  black,  shiny,  pear-shaped  berries,  very 
numerous,  but  very  small.  They  would  do 
moderately  well  in  default  of  better.  An- 
other patch,  perhaps  but  a  few  rods  re- 
moved, bore  large  globular  berries,  less 
glossy  than  the  others,  but  still  black. 
These,  as  we  expressed  it,  "  filled  up " 
much  faster  than  the  others,  though  not 
nearly  so  "  thick."  Blue  berries  (not  blue- 
berries, but  blue  huckleberries)  were  com- 
mon enough,  and  we  knew  one  small  clus- 
ter of  plants,  the  fruit  of  which  was  white, 
a  variety  that  I  have  since  found  noted  by 
Doctor  Gray  as  very  rare.  Unhappily,  this 
freak  made  so  little  impression  upon  me  as 
a  boy  that  while  I  am  clear  as  to  the  fact, 
and  feel  sure  of  the  pasture,  I  have  no  dis- 
tinct recollection  of  the  exact  spot  where 
the  eccentric  bushes  grew.  I  should  like 
to  know  whether  they  still  persist.  Gray's 
Manual,  by  the  way,  makes  no  mention  of 
the  blue  varieties,  but  lays  it  down  suc- 
cinctly that  the  fruit  of  Graylussacia  re- 
sinosa  is  black. 

The  difference  we  cared  most  about,  how- 
ever, related  not  to  color,  shape,  or  size, 


58  AN   OLD  ROAD. 

but  to  the  time  of  ripening.  Diversity  of 
habit  in  this  regard  was  indeed  a  great  piece 
of  good  fortune,  not  to  be  rightly  appre- 
ciated without  horrible  imaginings  of  how 
short  the  season  of  berry  pies  and  puddings 
would  be  if  all  the  berries  matured  at  once. 
You  may  be  sure  we  never  forgot  where 
the  early  sorts  were  to  be  found,  and  where 
the  late.  What  hours  upon  hours  we  spent 
in  the  broiling  sun,  picking  into  some  half- 
pint  vessel,  and  emptying  that  into  a  larger 
receptacle,  safely  stowed  away  under  some 
cedar  -  tree  or  barberry  bush.  How  proud 
we  were  of  our  heaped-up  pails !  How 
carefully  we  discarded  from  the  top  every 
half-ripe  or  otherwise  imperfect  specimen  ! 
(So  early  do  well-taught  Yankee  children 
develop  one  qualification  for  the  diaconate.) 
The  sun  had  certain  minor  errands  to  look 
after,  we  might  have  admitted,  even  in 
those  midsummer  days,  but  his  principal 
business  was  to  ripen  huckleberries.  So  it 
seemed  then.  And  now  —  well,  men  are 
but  children  still,  and  for  them,  too,  their 
own  little  round  is  the  centre  of  the  world. 
All  these  pastures  had  names,  of  course, 
well  understood  by  us  children,  though  I 


AN   OLD  ROAD.  59 

am  not  sure  how  generally  they  would 
have  been  recognized  by  the  townspeople. 
The  first  in  order  was  River  Pasture,  the 
owner  of  which  turned  his  cattle  into  it, 
and  every  few  years  mowed  the  bushes, 
with  the  result  that  the  berries,  whenever 
there  were  any,  were  uncommonly  large 
and  handsome.  Not  far  beyond  this  (the 
entrance  was  through  a  "  pair  of  bars," 
beside  a  spreading  white  oak)  was  Mill- 
stone Pasture.  This  was  a  large,  strag- 
gling place,  half  pasture,  half  wood,  full  of 
nooks  and  corners,  with  by-paths  running 
hither  and  thither,  and  named  after  two 
large  bowlders,  which  lay  one  on  top  of  the 
other.  We  used  to  clamber  upon  these 
to  eat  our  luncheon,  thinking  within  our- 
selves, meanwhile,  that  the  Indians  must 
have  been  men  of  prodigious  strength.  At 
that  time,  though  I  scarcely  know  how  to 
own  it,  glacial  action  was  a  thing  by  us  un- 
heard of.  We  are  wiser  now,  —  on  that 
point,  at  any  rate.  Two  of  the  other  pas- 
tures were  called  respectively  after  the  rail- 
road and  a  big  pine-tree  (there  was  a  big 

pine-tree  in  W once,  for  I  myself  have 

seen  the  stump),  while  the  remainder  took 


60  AN  OLD  ROAD. 

their  names  from  their  owners,  real  or  re- 
puted; and  as  some  of  these  appellations 
were  rather  disrespectfully  abbreviated,  it 
may  be  as  well  to  omit  setting  them  down 
in  print. 

To  all  these  places  we  resorted  a  little 
later  in  the  season  for  blackberries,  and 
later  still  for  barberries.  In  one  or  two 
of  them  we  set  snares,  also,  but  without 
materially  lessening  the  quantity  of  game. 
The  rabbits,  especially,  always  helped 
themselves  to  the  bait,  and  left  us  the 
noose.  At  this  distance  of  time  I  do  not 
begrudge  them  their  good  fortune.  I  hope 
they  are  all  alive  yet,  including  the  young- 
ster that  we  once  caught  in  our  hands  and 
brought  home,  and  then,  in  a  fit  of  con- 
trition, carried  back  again  to  its  native 
heath. 

All  in  all,  the  berries  that  we  prized 
most,  perhaps,  were  those  that  came  first, 
and  were  at  the  same  time  least  abundant. 
Yankee  children  will  understand  at  once 
that  I  mean  the  checkerberries,  or,  as  we 
were  more  accustomed  to  call  them,  the 
boxberries.  The  very  first  mild  days  in 
March,  if  the  snow  happened  to  be  mostly 


AN  OLD  ROAD.  61 

gone,  saw  us  on  this  same  old  road  bound 
for  one  of  the  places  where  we  thought  our- 
selves most  likely  to  find  a  few  (possibly  a 
pint  or  two,  but  more  probably  a  handful 
or  two)  of  these  humble  but  spicy  fruits. 
Not  that  the  plants  were  not  plentiful 
enough  in  all  directions,  but  it  was  only  in 
certain  spots  (or  rather  in  very  uncertain 
spots,  since  these  were  continually  shift- 
ing) that  they  were  ever  in  good  bearing 
condition.  We  came  after  a  while  to  un- 
derstand that  the  best  crops  were  produced 
for  two  or  three  years  after  the  cutting  off 
of  the  wood  in  suitable  localities.  Letting 
in  the  sunlight  seems  to  have  the  effect  of 
starting  into  sudden  fruitfulness  this  hardy, 
persistent  little  plant,  although  I  never 
could  discover  that  it  thrived  better  for 
growing  permanently  in  an  open,  sunny 
field.  Perhaps  it  requires  an  unexpected 
change  of  condition,  a  providential  nudge, 
as  it  were,  to  jog  it  into  activity,  like  some 
poets.  Whatever  the  explanation,  we  used 
now  and  then  in  recent  clearings  (and  no- 
where else)  to  find  the  ground  fairly  red 
with  berries.  Those  were  red-letter  days 
in  our  calendar.  How  handsome  such  a 


62  AN  OLD  ROAD. 

patch  of  rose-color  was  (though  we  made 
haste  to  despoil  it),  circling  an  old  stump 
or  a  bowlder  !  The  berries  were  pleasant 
to  the  eye  and  good  for  food  ;  but  after  all, 
their  principal  attractiveness  lay  in  the  fact 
that  they  came  right  upon  the  heels  of 
winter.  They  were  the  first  -  fruits  of  the 
new  year  (ripened  the  year  before,  to  be 
sure),  and  to  our  thinking  were  fit  to  be 
offered  upon  any  altar,  no  matter  how 
sacred. 

I  have  called  the  subject  of  my  loving 
meditations  a  by-road.  Formerly  it  was  the 
main  thoroughfare  between  two  villages,  but 
shortly  after  my  acquaintance  with  it  began 
a  new  and  more  direct  one  was  laid  out. 
Yet  the  old  road,  half  deserted  as  it  is,  has 
not  altogether  escaped  the  ruthless  hand  of 
the  improver.  Within  my  time  it  has  been 
widened  throughout,  and  in  one  place  a  new 
section  has  been  built  to  cut  off  a  curve. 
Fortunately,  however,  the  discarded  portion 
still  remains,  well  grown  up  to  grass,  and 
closely  encroached  upon  by  willows,  alders, 
sumachs,  barberries,  dogwoods,  smilax,  cle- 
thra,  azalea,  button-bush,  birches,  and  what 
not,  yet  still  passable  even  for  carriages, 


AN  OLD  ROAD.  63 

and  more  inviting  than  ever  to  lazy  pedes- 
trians like  myself.  On  this  cast-off  section 
is  a  cosy,  grassy  nook,  shaded  by  a  cluster 
of  red  cedars.  This  was  one  of  our  favorite 
way-stations  on  summer  noons.  It  gives 
me  a  comfortable,  restful  feeling  to  look 
into  it  even  now,  as  if  my  weary  limbs  had 
reminiscences  of  their  own  connected  with 
the  place. 

Right  at  this  point  stands  an  ancient  rus- 
set-apple tree,  which  seems  no  older  and 
brings  forth  no  smaller  apples  now  than  it 
did  when  I  first  knew  it.  How  natural  it 
looks  in  every  knot  and  branch !  Strange, 
too,  that  it  should  be  so,  since  I  do  not  re- 
call its  ever  contributing  the  first  mouthful 
to  my  pleasures  as  a  schoolboy  gastronomer. 
In  those  times  I  judged  a  tree  solely  by  the 
New  Testament  standard,  very  literally  in- 
terpreted, —  "  By  their  fruits  ye  shall  know 
them."  Now  I  have  other  tests,  and  can 
value  an  old  acquaintance  of  this  kind  for  its 
picturesqueness,  though  its  apples  be  bitter 
as  wormwood. 

I  am  making  too  much  of  the  food  ques- 
tion, and  will  therefore  say  nothing  of  straw- 
berries, raspberries,  thimbleberries,  cranber- 


64  AN  OLD  ROAD. 

ries  (which  last  were  delicious,  as  we  took 
them  out  of  their  icy  ovens  in  the  spring), 
pig-nuts,  hazel-nuts,  acorns,  and  the  rest. 
Yet  I  will  not  pass  by  a  small  clump  of  dan- 
gleberry  bushes  (a  September  luxury  not 
common  in  our  neighborhood)  and  a  lofty 
pear-tree.  The  latter,  in  truth,  hardly  be- 
longs under  this  head ;  for  though  it  bore 
superabundant  crops  of  pears,  not  even  a 
child  was  ever  known  to  eat  one.  We  called 
them  iron  pears,  perhaps  because  nothing  but 
the  hottest  fire  could  be  expected  to  reduce 
them  to  a  condition  of  softness.  My  mouth 
is  all  in  a  pucker  at  the  mere  thought  of 
the  rusty-green  bullets.  It  did  seem  a  pity 
they  should  be  so  outrageously  hard,  so  ab- 
solutely untoothsome  ;  for  the  tree,  as  I  say, 
was  a  big  one  and  provokingly  prolific,  and, 
moreover,  stood  squarely  upon  the  roadside. 
What  a  godsend  we  should  have  found  it, 
had  its  fruit  been  a  few  degrees  less  stony  ! 
Such  incongruities  and  disappointments  go 
far  to  convince  me  that  the  creation  is  in- 
deed, as  some  theologians  have  taught,  under 
a  curse. 

My  appetite  for  wild  fruits  has  grown 
dull  with  age,  but  meanwhile  my  affection 


AN  OLD  ROAD.  65 

for  the  old  road  has  not  lessened,  but  rather 
increased.  In  itself  the  place  is  nowise  re- 
markable, a  common  country  back  road 
(its  very  name  is  Back  Street)  ;  but  all  the 
same  I  "  take  pleasure  in  its  stones,  and 
favor  the  dust  thereof."  There  are  none 
of  us  so  matter-of-fact  arid  unsentimental,  I 
hope,  as  never  to  have  experienced  the  force 
of  old  associations  in  gilding  the  most  ordi- 
nary objects.  For  my  own  part,  I  protest, 
I  would  give  more  for  a  single  stunted  clus- 
ter of  orange -red  berries  from  a  certain 
small  vine  of  Roxbury  wax-work,  near  the 
entrance  to  Millstone  Pasture  aforesaid, 
than  for  a  bushel  of  larger  and  handsomer 
specimens  from  some  alien  source.  This 
old  vine  still  holds  on,  I  am  happy  to  see, 
though  it  appears  to  have  made  no  growth 
in  twenty  years.  Long  may  it  be  spared  ! 
It  was  within  a  few  rods  of  it,  beside  the 
path  that  runs  into  the  pasture,  that  I  shot 
my  first  bird.  Newly  armed  with  a  shot- 
gun, and  on  murder  bent,  I  turned  in  here ; 
and  as  luck  would  have  it,  there  sat  the  in- 
nocent creature  in  a  birch.  The  temptation 
was  too  great.  •  There  followed  a  moment 
of  excitement,  a  nervous  aim,  a  bang,  and 


66  AN  OLD  ROAD. 

a  catbird's  song  was  hushed  forever.  A 
mean  and  cruel  act,  which  I  confess  with 
shame,  and  have  done  my  best  to  atone  for 
by  speaking  here  and  there  a  good  word  for 
this  poorly  appreciated  member  of  our  na- 
tive choir.  I  should  be  glad  to  believe  that 
the  schoolboys  of  the  present  day  are  more 
tender-hearted  than  those  with  whom  I 
mixed  ;  but  I  am  not  without  my  doubts. 
As  Darwin  showed,  all  animals  in  the  em- 
bryonic stage  tend  to  reproduce  ancestral 
characteristics ;  and  our  Anglo-Saxon  ances- 
tors (how  easy  it  seems  to  believe  it !)  were 
barbarians. 

This  same  Millstone  Pasture,  by  the  bye, 
was  a  place  of  special  resort  at  Christmas 
time.  Here  grew  plenty  of  the  trailing 
plant  which  we  knew  simply  as  "  ever- 
green," but  which  now,  in  my  superior 
wisdom,  I  call  Lycopodium  complanatum. 
This,  indeed,  was  common  in  various  direc- 
tions, but  the  holly  was  much  less  easily 
found,  and  grew  here  more  freely  than  any- 
where else.  The  unhappy  trees  had  a  hard 
shift  to  live,  so  broken  down  were  they  with 
each  recurring  December ;  and  the  more 
berries  they  produced,  the  worse  for  them. 


AN   OLD  ROAD.  67 

Their  anticipations  of  Christmas  must  have 
been  strangely  different  from  those  of  us 
toy-loving,  candy-eating  children.  But  who 
thinks  of  sympathizing  with  a  tree? 

As  for  the  wayside  flowers,  they  are,  as 
becomes  the  place,  of  the  very  commonest 
and  most  old  -  fashioned  sorts,  more  wel- 
come to  my  eye  than  the  choicest  of 
rarities :  golden  -  rods  and  asters  in  great 
variety  and  profusion,  hardback  and  mead- 
ow-sweet, St.  John's  wort  and  loosestrife, 
violets  and  anemones,  self-heal  and  cranes- 
bill,  and  especially  the  lovely  but  little- 
known  purple  gerardia.  These,  with  their 
natural  companions  and  allies,  make  to  me 
a  garden  of  delights,  whereunto  my  feet,  as 
far  as  they  find  opportunity,  do  continually 
resort.  What  flowers  ought  a  New  Eng- 
lander  to  love,  if  not  such  as  are  charac- 
teristic of  New  England  ? 

And  yet,  proudly  and  affectionately  as  I 
talk  of  it,  Back  Street  is  not  what  it  once 
was.  I  have  already  mentioned  the  straight- 
ening, as  also  the  widening,  both  of  them 
sorry  improvements.  Furthermore,  there 
was  formerly  a  huge  (as  I  remember  it) 
and  beautifully  proportioned  hemlock-tree, 


68  AN   OLD  ROAD. 

at  which  I  used  to  gaze  admiringly  in  the 
first  years  of  my  wandering  hither.  What 
millions  of  tiny  cones  hung  from  its  pendu- 
lous branches  !  The  magnificent  creation 
should  have  been  protected  by  legislative 
enactment,  if  necessary  ;  but  no,  almost  as 
long  ago  as  I  can  remember,  long  before  I 
attained  to  grammar-school  dignities,  the 
owner  of  the  land  (so  he  thought  himself, 
no  doubt)  turned  the  tree  into  firewood. 
And  worse  yet,  the  stately  pine  grove  that 
flourished  across  the  way,  with  mossy  bowl- 
ders underneath  and  a  most  delightsome 
density  of  shade,  —  this,  too,  like  the  patri- 
archal hemlock,  has  been  cut  off  in  the 
midst  of  its  usefulness. 

"  Their  very  memory  is  fair  and  bright, 
And  my  sad  thoughts  doth  cheer !  " 

Now  there  is  nothing  on  the  whole  hillside 
but  a  thicket  of  young  hard-wood  trees  (I 
would  say  deciduous,  but  in  New  England, 
alas,  all  trees  are  deciduous),  through  which 
my  dog  loves  to  prowl,  but  which  warns  me 
to  keep  the  road.  Such  devastations  are 
not  to  be  prevented,  I  suppose,  but  at  least 
there  is  no  law  against  my  bewailing  them. 
Even  in  its  present  decadence,  however, 


AN  OLD  ROAD.  69 

my  road,  as  I  said  to  begin  with,  is  a  kind 
of  saunterer's  paradise.  When  we  come  to 
particulars,  indeed,  it  is  nothing  to  boast  of ; 
but  waiving  particulars,  and  taking  it  for 
all  in  all,  there  is  no  highway  upon  the 
planet  where  I  better  enjoy  an  idle  hour. 
There  is  a  boy  of  perhaps  ten  years  whose 
companionship  is  out  of  all  reason  dear  to 
me ;  and  nowhere  am  I  surer  to  find  him  at 
my  side,  hand  in  hand,  than  in  this  same 
lonely  road,  although  I  know  very  well  that 
those  who  meet  or  pass  me  here  see  only 
one  person,  and  that  a  man  of  several  times 
ten  years.  But  thank  Heaven,  we  are  not 
always  alone  when  we  seem  to  be. 


CONFESSIONS   OF   A  BIRD'S-NEST 
HUNTER. 

I  am  bold  to  show  myself  a  forward  guest. 

SHAKESPEARE. 

LET  it  be  said  at  the  outset  that  the 
seeker  after  bird's-nests  is  never  without 
plenty  of  company,  of  one  sort  and  another. 
For  instance,  I  was  out  early  one  cloudy 
morning  last  spring,  when  I  canght  sight 
of  a  handsome  black  and  white  animal 
nosing  his  way  through  the  bushes  on  one 
side  of  the  path.  He  had  come  forth  on 
the  same  errand  as  myself  ;  and  I  thought 
at  once  of  the  veery's  nest,  for  which  I 
had  been  looking  in  vain,  but  which  could 
not  be  far  from  the  very  spot  where  my 
black  and  white  rival  was  just  at  this  mo- 
ment standing.  I  wondered  whether  he 
had  already  found  it ;  but  I  did  not  stay  to 
ask  him.  In  spite  of  his  beauty,  and  in 
spite  of  our  evident  community  of  interest, 
I  felt  no  drawings  toward  a  more  intimate 


A  BIRD'S-NEST  HUNTER.  71 

acquaintance.  I  knew  him  by  name  and 
reputation,  —  Mephitis  mephitica  the  scien- 
tific folk  call  him,  with  felicitous  reverbera- 
tive  emphasis,  —  and  that  sufficed.  At  an- 
other time,  a  few  weeks  later  than  this,  I 
overheard  an  unusual  commotion  among 
the  birds  in  our  apple  orchard.  "Some 
rascally  cat !  "  I  thought ;  and,  picking  up 
a  stone,  I  hastened  to  put  a  stop  to  his  de- 
predations. But  there  was  no  cat  in  sight ; 
and  it  was  not  till  I  stood  immediately 
under  the  tree  that  I  discovered  the  ma- 
rauder to  be  a  snake,  just  then  slowly  mak- 
ing toward  the  ground,  with  a  young  bird 
in  his  jaws.  Watching  my  opportunity, 
while  he  was  engaged  in  the  delicate  opera- 
tion of  lowering  himself  from  one  branch  to 
another,  I  shook  the  trunk  vigorously,  and 
down  he  tumbled  at  my  feet.  Once  and 
again  I  set  my  heel  upon  him  ;  but  the  tall 
grass  was  in  his  favor,  and  he  succeeded  in 
getting  off,  leaving  his  dead  victim  behind 
him.1 

1  The  birds  at  once  became  quiet,  and  I  went  back  com- 
placently to  my  book  under  the  linden-tree.  Who  knows, 
however,  whether  there  may  not  have  been  another  side  to 
the  story  ?  Who  shall  say  what  were  the  emotions  of  the 
snake,  as  he  wriggled  painfu'ly  homeward  after  such  an 


72  A  BIR&S-NEST  HUNTER. 

It  is  noble  society  in  which  we  find  our- 
selves, is  it  not?  In  the  front  rank  are 
what  we  may  call  the  professional  oologists, 

—  such  as  follow  the  business  for  a  liveli- 
hood :    snakes,    skunks,    weasels,    squirrels, 
cats,   crows,   jays,    cuckoos,    and   the  like. 
Then  come  the  not  inconsiderable  number 
of  persons  who,  for  a  more  or  less  strictly 
scientific  purpose,  take  here  and  there  a 
nest  with  its  contents  ;  while  these  are  fol- 
lowed by  hordes  of  school-boys,  whom  the 
prevalent  mania  for  "  collecting  "  drives  to 
scrape  together  miscellaneous  lots  of  eggs, 

—  half-named,  misnamed,  and  nameless,  — 
to  put  with  previous  accumulations  of  post- 
age-stamps, autographs,  business  cards,  and 
other  like  precious  rubbish. 

Alas,  the  poor  birds !  These  "  perils  of  rob- 
bers "  and  "  perils  among  false  brethren  " 
are  bad  enough,  but  they  have  many  others 
to  encounter;  "  journey  ings  often"  and 
u  perils  of  waters  "  being  among  the  worst. 
Gentle  and  innocent  as  they  seem,  it  speaks 

assault  ?  Myself  no  vegetarian,  by  what  right  had  I  bela- 
bored him  for  liking  the  taste  of  chicken  V  It  were  well, 
perhaps,  not  to  pry  too  curiously  into  questions  of  this 
kind.  Most  likely  it  would  not  flatter  our  human  self-esteem 
to  know  what  some  of  our  "  poor  relations  "  think  of  us. 


A  BIR&S-NEST  HUNTER.  73 

well  for  their  cunning  and  endurance  that 
they  escape  utter  extermination. 

This  phase  of  the  subject  is  especially 
forced  upon  the  attention  of  observers  like 
myself,  who  search  for  nests,  not  mischiev- 
ously, nor  even  with  the  laudable  design  of 
the  scientific  investigator,  but  solely  as  a 
means  of  promoting  friendly  acquaintance. 
We  may  not  often  witness  the  catastrophe 
itself ;  but  as  we  go  our  daily  rounds,  now 
peeping  under  the  bank  or  into  the  bush, 
and  now  climbing  the  tree,  to  see  how  some 
timid  friend  of  ours  is  faring,  we  are  only 
too  certain  to  come  upon  first  one  home 
and  then  another  which  has  been  rifled 
and  deserted  since  our  last  visit ;  till  we 
begin  to  wonder  why  the  defenseless  and 
persecuted  creatures  do  not  turn  pessimists 
outright,  and  relinquish  forever  their  at- 
tempt to  "  be  fruitful,  and  multiply,  and 
replenish  the  earth." 

Thinking  of  these  things  anew,  now  that 
I  am  reviewing  my  last  spring's  experi- 
ences, it  is  doubly  gratifying  to  recall  that 
I  robbed  only  one  nest  during  the  entire 
season,  and  that  not  of  malice,  but  by  ac- 
cident. It  happened  on  this  wise.  A  couple 


74  A  BIR&8-NEST  HUNTER. 

of  solitary  vireos  had  taken  up  their  abode 
on  a  wooded  hillside,  where  they,  or  others 
like  them,  had  passed  the  previous  sum- 
mer, and  one  day  I  proposed  to  a  friend 
that  we  make  it  our  business  to  search  out 
the  nest.  It  proved  to  be  not  very  difficult 
of  discovery,  though,  when  we  put  our  eyes 
upon  it,  it  appeared  that  we  had  walked 
directly  by  it  several  times,  all  in  sight  as 
it  was,  suspended  from  near  the  end  of  an 
oak-tree  branch,  perhaps  nine  feet  from  the 
ground.  It  contained  five  eggs,  including 
one  of  the  cow-bird;  but  just  as  my  com- 
panion was  about  to  let  go  the  branch, 
which  he  had  been  holding  down  for  my 
convenience,  the  end  snapped,  up  went  the 
nest,  and  out  jumped  four  of  the  eggs.  We 
were  sorry,  of  course,  but  consoled  our- 
selves with  the  destruction  of  the  parasite, 
which  otherwise  would  very  likely  have 
been  the  death  of  the  vireos'  own  offspring. 
Meanwhile,  the  birds  themselves  took  mat- 
ters coolly.  One  of  them  fell  to  singing 
as  soon  as  we  withdrew,  while  the  other 
flew  to  the  nest,  looked  in,  and  without  a 
word  resumed  her  seat.  After  all,  the  ac- 
cident might  turn  out  to  be  nothing  worse 


A  BIRD'S-NEST  HUNTER.  75 

than  a  blessing  in  disguise,  we  said  to  each 
other.  But  before  many  days  it  became 
evident  that  the  pair  had  given  up  the  nest, 
and  I  carried  it  to  a  friend  whom  I  knew 
to  be  in  want  of  such  a  specimen  for  his 
cabinet. 

It  is  worth  noticing  how  widely  birds  of 
the  same  species  differ  among  themselves 
in  their  behavior  under  trial.  Their  minds 
are  no  more  run  in  one  mould  than  human 
minds  are.  In  their  case,  as  in  ours,  in- 
numerable causes  have  worked  together  to 
produce  the  unique  individual  result.  Much 
is  due  to  inheritance,  no  doubt,  but  much 
likewise  to  accident.  One  mother  has 
never  had  her  nest  invaded,  and  is  there- 
fore careless  of  our  presence.  Another  has 
so  frequently  been  robbed  of  her  all  that 
she  has  grown  hardened  to  disaster,  and 
she  also  makes  no  very  great  ado  when  we 
intrude  upon  her.  A  third  is  still  in  a 
middle  state,  —  alive  to  the  danger,  but  not 
yet  able  to  face  it  philosophically,  —  and 
she  will  become  hysterical  at  the  first  symp- 
tom of  trouble. 

At  the  very  time  of  the  mishap  just 
described  I  was  keeping  watch  over  the 


76  A  BIRD'8-NEST  HUNTER. 

household  arrangements  of  another  and 
much  less  stoical  pair  of  solitary  vireos. 
These,  as  soon  as  I  discovered  their  secret 
(which  was  not  till  after  several  attempts), 
became  extremely  jealous  of  my  proximity, 
no  matter  how  indirect  and  innocent  my 
approaches.  Even  when  I  seated  myself 
at  what  I  deemed  a  very  respectful  dis- 
tance the  sitting  bird  would  at  once  quit 
her  place,  and  begin  to  complain  in  her 
own  delightfully  characteristic  manner,  — 
chattering,  scolding,  and  warbling  by  turns, 
—  refusing  to  be  pacified  in  the  least  until 
I  took  myself  off.  Once  I  remained  for 
some  time  close  under  the  nest,  on  purpose 
to  see  how  many  of  the  neighbors  would  be 
attracted  to  the  spot.  With  the  exception 
of  the  wood  wagtails,  I  should  say  that 
nearly  all  the  small  birds  in  the  immediate 
vicinity  must  have  turned  out :  black-and- 
white  creepers,  redstarts,  chestnut  -  sided 
warblers,  black  -  throated  greens,  a  blue 
golden-wing,  red-eyed  vireos,  and  a  third 
solitary  vireo.  If  they  were  moved  with 
pity  for  the  pair  whose  lamentations  had 
drawn  them  together,  they  did  not  mani- 
fest it,  as  far  as  I  could  see.  Perhaps  they 


A  BIRD'S-NEST  HUNTER.  77 

found  small  occasion  for  so  loud  a  disturb- 
ance. Possibly,  moreover,  as  spectators 
who  had  honored  me  with  their  presence 
(and  that  in  the  very  midst  of  their  busy 
season),  they  felt  themselves  cheated,  and, 
so  to  speak,  outraged,  by  my  failure  to 
finish  the  tragedy  artistically,  by  shooting 
the  parent  birds  and  pulling  down  the  nest. 
Creatures  who  can  neither  read  novels  nor 
attend  upon  dramatic  performances  may  be 
presumed  to  suffer  at  times  for  lack  of  a 
pleasurable  excitement  of  the  sensibilities. 
At  all  events,  these  visitors  contented  them- 
selves with  staring  at  me  for  a  few  minutes, 
and  then  one  by  one  turned  away,  as  if  it 
were  not  much  of  a  show  after  all.  To  the 
interested  couple,  however,  it  was  a  matter 
of  life  and  death.  The  female  especially 
(or  the  sitter,  for  the  sexes  are  indistin- 
guishable) hopped  close  about  my  head, 
sometimes  uttering  a  strangely  sweet,  plead- 
ing note,  which  might  have  melted  a  heart 
much  harder  than  mine.  Her  associate 
kept  at  a  more  cautious  remove,  but  made 
amends  by  continuing  to  scold  after  the 
danger  was  all  over.  By  the  bye,  I  noticed 
that  in  the  midst  of  the  commotion,  as  soon 


78  A  BIR&S-NEST  HUNTER. 

as  the  first  agony  was  past,  the  one  who 
had  been  sitting  was  not  so  entirely  over- 
come as  not  to  be  able  to  relish  an  occa- 
sional insect,  which  she  snatched  here  and 
there  between  her  vituperative  exclama- 
tions. Faithful  and  hungry  little  mother  I 
her  heart  was  not  broken,  let  us  hope,  when 
within  a  week  or  so  some  miscreant,  to  me 
unknown,  ravaged  her  house  and  left  it 
desolate. 

Not  many  rods  from  the  vireos'  cedar- 
tree  was  a  brown  thrasher's  nest  in  a  bar- 
berry bush.  It  had  an  exceedingly  dilapi- 
dated, year-old  appearance,  and  I  went  by 
it  several  times  without  thinking  it  worth 
looking  at,  till  I  accidentally  observed  the 
bird  upon  it.  She  did  not  budge  till  I  was 
within  a  few  feet  of  her,  when  she  tumbled 
to  the  ground,  and  limped  away  with  loud 
cries.  Perceiving  that  this  worn-out  ruse 
did  not  avail,  she  turned  upon  me,  and  ac- 
tually seemed  about  to  make  an  attack. 
How  she  did  rave  !  I  thought  that  I  had 
never  seen  a  bird  so  beside  herself  with 
anger. 

Shortly  after  my  encounter  with  this  irate 
thrush  I  nearly  stepped  upon  one  of  her 


A  BIRD'3-NEST  HUNTER.  79 

sisters,  brooding  upon  a  ground  nest;  and 
it  illustrates  what  has  been  said  about  vari- 
ety of  temperament  that  the  second  bird 
received  me  in  a  very  quiet,  self-contained 
manner ;  giving  me  to  understand,  to  be 
sure,  that  my  visit  was  ill-timed  and  un- 
welcome, but  not  acting  at  all  as  if  I  were 
some  ogre,  the  very  sight  of  which  must  per- 
force drive  a  body  crazy. 

In  the  course  of  the  season  I  found  three 
nests  of  the  rose-breasted  grosbeak.  The 
first,  to  my  surprise,  was  in  the  topmost 
branches  of  a  tall  sweet-birch,  perhaps  forty 
feet  above  the  ground.  I  noticed  the  female 
flying  into  the  grove  with  a  load  of  building 
materials,  and  a  little  later  (as  soon  as  my 
engagement  with  an  interesting  company  of 
gray-cheeked  thrushes  would  permit)  I  fol- 
lowed, and  almost  at  once  saw  the  pair  at 
their  work.  And  a  very  pretty  exhibition 
it  was,  —  so  pretty  that  I  returned  the  next 
morning  to  see  more  of  it.  It  must  be  ad- 
mitted that  the  labor  seemed  rather  un- 
equally divided :  the  female  not  only  fetched 
all  the  sticks,  but  took  upon  herself  the  en- 
tire business  of  construction,  her  partner's 
contribution  to  the  enterprise  being  limited 


80  A  BIRD'S-NEST  HUNTER. 

strictly  to  the  performance  of  escort  duty. 
When  she  had  fitted  the  new  twigs  into 
their  place  to  her  satisfaction  (which  often 
took  considerable  time)  she  uttered  a  sig- 
nal, and  the  pair  flew  out  of  the  wood  to- 
gether, talking  sweetly  as  they  went.  The 
male  was  aware  of  my  presence  from  the 
beginning,  I  think,  but  he  appeared  to  re- 
gard it  as  of  no  consequence.  Probably 
he  believed  the  nest  well  out  of  my  reach, 
as  in  fact  it  was.  He  usually  sang  a  few 
snatches  while  waiting  for  his  wife,  and,  as 
he  sat  within  a  few  feet  of  her  and  made 
no  attempt  at  concealment,  it  could  hardly 
be  supposed  that  he  refrained  from  offering 
to  assist  her  for  fear  his  brighter  colors 
should  betray  their  secret.  Some  different 
motive  from  this  must  be  assigned  for  his 
seeming  want  of  gallantry.  To  all  appear- 
ance, however,  the  parties  themselves  took 
the  whole  proceeding  as  a  simple  matter  of 
course.  They  were  but  minding  the  most 
approved  grosbeak  precedents ;  and  after 
all,  who  is  so  likely  to  be  in  the  right  as  he 
who  follows  the  fashion  ?  Shall  one  bird 
presume  to  be  wiser  than  all  the  millions 
of  his  race  ?  Nay ;  as  the  Preacher  long 


A  BIR&S-NEST  HUNTER.  81 

ago  said,  "  The  thing  that  hath  been,  it  is 
that  which  shall  be."  Nothing  could  have 
been  more  complacent  and  affectionate  than 
the  lady's  voice  and  demeanor  as  often  as 
she  gave  the  finishing  touches  to  a  twig, 
and  called  to  her  companion,  "  Come,  now, 
let 's  go  for  another."  Naturally,  the  female 
is  the  one  most  concerned  about  the  stabil- 
ity and  comfortable  shape  of  the  nest,  and 
possibly  she  does  not  count  it  prudent  to 
entrust  her  spouse  with  any  share  in  so  deli- 
cate and  important  an  undertaking ;  but,  if 
so,  she  must  know  him  for  an  arrant  bun- 
gler, since  the  structure  which  she  herself 
puts  together  is  a  most  shabby  -  looking 
affair,  scarcely  better  than  the  cuckoo's. 

Such  happiness  as  that  of  these  married 
lovers  was  perhaps  too  perfect  to  last.  At 
any  rate,  it  was  only  a  week  before  their 
idyl  all  at  once  turned  to  tragedy.  A  sharp 
click,  click !  attracted  my  attention,  as  I 
passed  under  their  birch  (on  my  way  to  call 
upon  a  pair  of  chickadees,  who  were  keep- 
ing house  in  a  low  stump  close  by),  and, 
glancing  up,  I  saw  the  bushy  tail  of  a  red 
squirrel  hanging  over  the  edge  of  the  nest. 
The  male  grosbeak  was  dashing  wildly 


82  A  BIRD'S-NEST  HUNTER. 

about  the  invader,  while  a  wood  thrush, 
a  towhee  bunting  (who  looked  strange  at 
such  a  height),  a  red-eyed  vireo,  and  a  blue 
golden-winged  warbler  were  surveying  the 
scene  from  the  adjacent  branches,  —  though 
the  thrush  withdrew  in  the  midst  of  the 
tumult,  and  fell  to  singing  (as  one  may  see 
happy  young  couples  going  merrily  home- 
ward after  witnessing  the  murder  of  Duncan 
or  Desdemona).  Meanwhile,  the  squirrel, 
having  finished  his  work,  descended  leis- 
urely toward  the  ground,  snickering  and 
chuckling,  as  if  he  felt  immensely  pleased 
with  his  achievement.  Probably  his  emo- 
tions did  not  differ  essentially  from  those  of 
a  human  sportsman,  but  it  was  lucky  for 
him,  nevertheless,  that  I  had  no  means  of 
putting  an  end  to  his  mirth.  I  could  have 
blown  his  head  off  without  compunction. 
When  he  had  gone,  and  the  visiting  birds 
with  him,  the  grosbeak  returned  to  his  nest, 
and  in  the  most  piteous  manner  hovered 
about  the  spot,  —  getting  into  the  nest  and 
out  again,  —  as  if  completely  dazed  by  the 
sudden  disaster.  Throughout  the  excite- 
ment the  female  did  not  show  herself,  and 
I  wondered  whether  she  could  have  sub- 


A  BIR&S-NEST   HUNTER.  83 

mitted  to  be  killed  rather  than  desert  her 
charge.  To  the  honor  of  her  kind  be  it  said 
that  the  supposition  is  far  from  incredible. 

My  second  nest  of  this  species  was  within 
twenty  rods  of  the  first,  and  was  in  use  at 
the  same  time ;  but  it  met  with  no  better 
fate,  though  I  was  not  present  to  see  it 
robbed.  The  third  was  more  prosperous, 
and,  unless  something  befell  the  young  af 
the  last  moment,  they  were  safely  launched 
upon  the  wing.  This  nest  was  situated  in 
a  clump  of  witch-hazel  bushes,  at  a  height 
of  eight  or  nine  feet.  I  remarked  a  gros- 
beak singing  near  the  spot,  and,  seeing  him 
very  unwilling  to  move  away,  concluded 
that  his  home  could  not  be  far  off.  It  was 
soon  found,  —  a  slight,  shapeless,  frail-look- 
ing bundle  of  sticks,  with  the  female  upon 
it.  I  took  hold  of  the  main  stem,  just  be- 
low her,  and  drew  her  towards  me ;  but  she 
would  not  rise,  although  I  could  see  her 
moving  uneasily.  I  had  no  heart  to  annoy 
her  ;  so  I  called  her  a  good,  brave  bird,  and 
left  her  in  peace.  Her  mate,  all  this  while, 
kept  on  singing  ;  and  to  judge  from  his  be- 
havior, I  might  have  been  some  honored 
guest,  to  be  welcomed  with  music.  The 


84  A  BIRD'S-NEST  EUNTER. 

simple-hearted  —  not  to  say  simple-minded 
—  fearlessness  of  this  bird  is  really  aston- 
ishing ;  especially  in  view  of  the  fact  that 
his  showy  plumage  makes  him  a  favorite 
mark  for  every  amateur  taxidermist.  He 
will  even  warble  while  brooding  upon  the 
eggs,  a  delicious  piece  of  absurdity,  which  I 
hope  sooner  or  later  to  witness  for  myself. 

While  watching  my  first  couple  of  gros- 
beaks I  suddenly  became  aware  of  a  wood 
thrush  passing  back  and  forth  between  the 
edge  of  a  brook  and  a  certain  oak,  against 
the  bole  of  which  she  was  making  ready  her 
summer  residence.  She  seemed  to  be  quite 
unattended  ;  but  just  as  I  was  beginning 
to  contrast  her  case  with  that  of  the  fem- 
inine grosbeak  overhead,  her  mate  broke 
into  song  from  a  low  branch  directly  behind 
me.  She  had  all  the  while  known  where 
he  was,  I  dare  say,  and  would  have  been 
greatly  amused  at  my  commiseration  of 
her  loneliness.  The  next  morning  she 
was  compelled  to  make  longer  flights  for 
such  stuff  as  she  needed ;  and  now  it  was 
pleasant  to  observe  that  her  lord  did  not 
fail  to  accompany  her  to  and  fro,  and  to  sing 
to  her  while  she  worked. 


A  BIR&S-NEST  HUNTER.  85 

The  wood  thrush  has  the  name  of  a  re- 
cluse, and,  as  compared  with  the  omnipres- 
ent robin,  he  may  deserve  the  title  ;  but 
he  is  seldom  very  difficult  of  approach,  if 
one  only  knows  how  to  go  about  it,  while 
his  nest  is  peculiarly  easy  of  detection.  I 
remember  one  which  was  close  by  an  un- 
fenced  road,  just  outside  the  city  of  Wash- 
ington ;  and  two  or  three  years  ago  I  found 
another  in  a  barberry  bush,  not  more  than 
fifteen  feet  from  a  horse-car  track,  and  so 
near  the  fence  as  to  be  almost  within  arm's- 
length  of  passers-by.  This  latter  was  in 
full  view  from  the  street,  and  withal  was  so 
feebly  supported  that  some  kind-hearted 
neighbor  had  taken  pains  to  tie  up  the  bush 
(which  stood  by  itself)  with  a  piece  of  dan- 
gerously new-looking  rope.  And  even  as  I 
write  I  recall  still  a  third,  which  also  was 
close  by  the  roadside,  though  at  the  very 
exceptional  elevation  of  twenty-five  or  thirty 
feet. 

It  is  one  of  the  capital  advantages  of  the 
ornithologist's  condition  that  he  is  rarely 
called  upon  to  spend  his  time  and  strength 
for  naught.  If  he  fails  of  the  particular 
object  of  his  search,  he  is  all  but  sure  to 


86  A  BIR&S-NEST  HUNTER. 

be  rewarded  with  something  else.  For  ex- 
ample, while  I  was  unsuccessfully  playing 
the  spy  upon  a  pair  of  my  solitary  vireos, 
a  female  tanager  suddenly  dropped  into  her 
half-built  nest  in  a  low  pine-branch,  at  the 
same  time  calling  softly  to  her  mate,  who 
at  once  came  to  sit  beside  her.  Unfortu- 
nately, one  of  the  pair  very  soon  caught  sight 
of  me,  and  they  made  off  in  haste.  I  lin- 
gered about,  till  finally  the  lady  appeared 
again,  with  her  beak  full  of  sticks,  standing 
out  at  all  points  of  the  compass.  She  was 
so  jealous  of  my  espionage,  however,  that  it 
looked  as  if  she  would  never  be  rid  of  her 
load.  No  sooner  did  she  alight  in  the  tree 
than  she  began  to  crane  her  neck,  staring 
this  way  and  that,  and  chipping  nervously  ; 
then  she  shifted  her  perch ;  then  out  of  the 
tree  she  went  altogether  ;  then  back  again  ; 
then  off  once  more ;  then  back  within  a 
yard  of  the  nest;  then  away  again,  till  at 
last  my  patience  gave  out,  and  I  left  her 
mistress  of  the  field.  All  this  while  the 
male  was  in  sight,  flitting  restlessly  from 
tree  to  tree  at  a  safe  distance.  I  have  never 
witnessed  a  prettier  display  of  connubial 
felicity  than  this  pair  afforded  me  during 


A  BIR&S-NEST  HUNTER.  87 

the  minute  or  two  which  elapsed  between 
my  discovery  of  them  and  their  discovery  of 
me.  I  felt  almost  guilty  for  intruding  upon 
such  a  scene ;  but,  if  they  could  only  have 
believed  it,  I  intended  no  harm,  nor  have 
I  now  any  thought  of  profaning  their  inno- 
cent mysteries  by  attempting  to  describe 
what  I  saw. 

The  male  tanager,  with  his  glory  of  jet 
black  and  flaming  scarlet,  is  in  curious  con- 
trast with  his  mate,  with  whose  personal 
appearance,  nevertheless,  he  seems  to  be 
abundantly  satisfied.  Possibly  he  looks  upon 
a  dirty  greenish-yellow  as  the  loveliest  of 
tints,  and  regards  his  own  dress  as  nothing 
better  than  commonplace,  in  comparison. 
Like  the  rose  -  breasted  grosbeak  and  the 
wood  thrush,  however,  he  is  brought  up  with 
the  notion  that  it  belongs  to  the  female  to 
be  the  carpenter  of  the  family ;  a  belief  in 
which,  happily  for  his  domestic  peace,  the 
female  herself  fully  concurs. 

As  a  general  thing,  handsomely  dressed 
people  live  in  handsome  houses  (emphasis 
should  perhaps  be  laid  on  the  word  dressed), 
and  it  would  seem  natural  that  a  like  con- 
gruity  should  hold  in  the  case  of  birds. 


88  A  BIR&S-NEST  HUNTER. 

But,  if  such  be  the  rule,  there  are  at  least 
some  glaring  exceptions.  I  have  alluded 
to  the  rude  structure  of  the  rose-breast,  and 
might  have  used  nearly  the  same  language 
concerning  the  tanager's,  which  latter  is 
often  fabricated  so  loosely  that  one  can  see 
the  sky  through  it.  Yet  these  two  are 
among  the  most  gorgeously  attired  of  all 
our  birds.  On  the  other  hand,  while  the 
wood  pewee  is  one  of  the  very  plainest,  there 
are  few,  if  any,  that  excel  her  as  an  archi- 
tect. During  the  season  under  review  I  had 
the  good  fortune  to  light  upon  my  first  nest 
of  this  fly-catcher ;  and,  as  is  apt  to  be  true, 
having  found  one,  I  immediately  and  with- 
out effort  found  two  others.  The  first  two 
were  in  oaks,  the  third  in  a  hornbeam ;  and 
all  were  set  upon  the  upper  side  of  a  hori- 
zontal bough  ("saddled"  upon  it,  as  the 
manuals  say),  at  the  junction  of  an  offshoot 
with  the  main  branch.  Two  of  them  were 
but  partially  done  when  discovered,  and  I 
was  glad  to  see  one  pair  of  the  birds  in 
something  very  like  a  frolic,  such  a  state  as 
would  hardly  be  predicted  of  these  pecu- 
liarly sober-seeming  creatures.  The  builder 
of  the  second  nest  was  remarkably  confid- 


A  BIRD'S-NEST  HUNTER.  89 

ing,  and  proceeded  with  her  labors,  quite 
undisturbed  by  my  proximity  and  undis- 
guised interest.  It  was  to  be  remarked 
that  she  had  trimmed  the  outside  of  her 
nest  with  lichens  before  finishing  the  inte- 
rior ;  and  I  especially  admired  the  very 
clever  manner  in  which  she  hovered  against 
the  dead  pine-trunk,  from  which  she  was 
gathering  strips  of  bark.  Concerning  her 
unsuspiciousness,  however,  it  should  be  said 
that  the  word  applies  only  to  her  treatment 
of  myself.  When  a  thrasher  had  the  im- 
pertinence to  alight  in  her  oak  she  ordered 
him  off  in  high  dudgeon,  dashing  back  and 
forth  above  him,  and  snapping  spitefully 
as  she  passed.  She  knew  her  rights,  and, 
knowing,  dared  maintain.  When  a  bird 
builds  her  nest  in  any  part  of  a  tree  she 
claims  every  twig  of  it  as  her  own.  I  have 
even  seen  the  gentle-hearted  chickadee  re- 
sent the  intrusion  of  a  chipping  sparrow, 
though  it  appeared  impossible  that  the  lat- 
ter could  be  suspected  of  any  predatory  or 
sinister  design. 

The  shallowness  of  the  wood  pewee's  sau- 
cer-shaped nest,  its  position  upon  the  branch, 
and  especially  its  external  dress  of  lichens, 


90  A  BIRD'S-NEST  EUNTER. 

all  conspire  to  render  it  inconspicuous.  It 
is  an  interesting  question  whether  the  owner 
herself  appreciates  this,  or  has  merely  in- 
herited the  fashion,  without  thought  of  the 
reasons  for  it.  The  latter  supposition,  I 
reluctantly  confess,  looks  to  me  the  more 
probable.  It  must  often  be  true  of  other 
animals,  as  it  is  of  men,  that  they  build 
better  than  they  know.  Their  wisdom  is 
not  their  own,  but  belongs  to  a  power  back 
of  them,  —  a  power  which  works,  if  you 
will,  in  accordance  with  what  we  designate 
as  the  law  of  natural  selection,  and  which, 
so  to  speak,  enlightens  the  race  rather  than 
the  individual. 

After  all,  it  is  the  ground  birds  that  puz- 
zle the  human  oologist.  Crossing  a  brook, 
I  saw  what  I  regarded  as  almost  infallible 
signs  that  a  pair  of  Maryland  yellow-throats 
had  begun  to  build  beside  it.  Unless  I  was 
entirely  at  fault,  the  nest  must  be  within  a 
certain  two  or  three  square  yards,  and  I  de- 
voted half  an  hour,  more  or  less,  to  ran- 
sacking the  grass  and  bushes,  till  I  thought 
every  inch  of  the  ground  had  been  gone 
over  ;  but  all  to  no  purpose.  Continuing 
my  walk,  I  noticed  after  a  while  that  the 


A  BIRD'S-NEST  HUNTER.  91 

male  warbler  was  accompanying  me  up  the 
hillside,  apparently  determined  to  see  me 
safely  out  of  the  way.  Coming  to  the  same 
brook  again  the  next  morning,  I  halted  for 
another  search ;  and  lo  !  all  in  a  moment 
my  eye  fell  upon  the  coveted  nest,  not  on 
the  ground,  but  perhaps  eight  inches  from 
it,  in  a  little  clump  of  young  golden-rods, 
which  would  soon  overgrow  it  completely. 
The  female  proprietor  was  present,  and 
manifested  so  much  concern  that  I  would 
not  tarry,  but  made  rather  as  if  I  had  seen 
nothing,  and  passed  on.  It  was  some  time 
before  I  observed  that  she  was  keeping 
along  beside  me,  precisely  as  her  mate  had 
done  the  day  before.  The  innocent  crea- 
tures, sorely  pestered  as  they  were,  could 
hardly  be  blamed  for  such  precautions ;  yet 
it  is  not  pleasant  to  be  "shadowed"  as  a 
suspicious  character,  even  by  Maryland  yel- 
low-throats. 

This  was  my  first  nest  of  a  very  common 
warbler,  and  I  felt  particularly  solicitous 
for  its  safety  ;  but  alas !  no  sooner  was  the 
first  egg  laid  than  something  or  somebody 
carried  it  off,  and  the  afflicted  couple  de- 
serted the  house  on  which  they  had  ex- 
pended so  much  labor  and  anxiety. 


92  A  BIRD'S-NEST  HUNTER. 

Not  far  beyond  the  yellow-throats'  brook, 
and  almost  directly  under  one  of  the  pe  wees' 
oaks,  was  a  nest  which  pretty  certainly 
had  belonged  to  a  pair  of  chewinks,  but 
which  was  already  forsaken  when  I  found 
it,  though  I  had  then  no  inkling  of  the  fact. 
It  contained  four  eggs,  and  everything  was 
in  perfect  order.  The  mother  had  gone 
away,  and  had  never  come  back ;  having 
fallen  a  victim,  probably,  to  some  collec- 
tor, human  or  inhuman.  The  tragedy  was 
peculiar ;  and  the  tragical  effect  of  it  was 
heightened  as  day  after  day,  for  nearly  a 
fortnight  at  least  (I  cannot  say  for  how 
much  longer),  the  beautiful  eggs  lay  there 
entirely  uncovered,  and  yet  no  skunk,  squir- 
rel, or  other  devourer  of  such  dainties  hap- 
pened to  spy  them.  It  seemed  doubly 
sad  that  so  many  precious  nests  should  be 
robbed,  while  this  set  of  worthless  eggs  was 
left  to  spoil. 

I  have  already  mentioned  the  housekeep- 
ing of  a  couple  of  chickadees  in  a  low  birch 
stump.  Theirs  was  one  of  three  titmouse 
nests  just  then  claiming  my  attention.  I 
visited  it  frequently,  from  the  time  when 
the  pair  were  hard  at  work  making  the 


A  BIRD'S- NEST  HUNTER.  93 

cavity  up  to  the  time  when  the  brood  were 
nearly  ready  to  shift  for  themselves.  Both 
birds  took  their  share  of  the  digging,  and  on 
several  occasions  I  saw  one  feeding  the 
other.  After  the  eggs  were  deposited,  the 
mother  (or  the  sitter)  displayed  admirable 
courage,  refusing  again  and  again  to  quit 
her  post  when  I  peered  in  upon  her,  and 
even  when  with  my  cane  I  rapped  smartly 
upon  the  stump.  If  I  put  my  fingers  into 
the  hole,  however,  she  followed  them  out  in 
hot  haste.  Even  when  most  seriously  dis- 
turbed by  my  attentions  the  pair  made  use 
of  no  other  notes  than  the  common  chick- 
adee, dee,  but  these  they  sometimes  deliv- 
ered in  an  unnaturally  sharp,  fault-finding 
tone. 

My  two  other  titmouse  nests  were  both 
in  apple-trees,  and  one  of  them  was  in  my 
own  door-yard,  though  beyond  convenient 
reach  without  the  help  of  a  ladder.  The 
owners  of  this  last  were  interesting  for  a 
very  decided  change  in  their  behavior  after 
the  young  were  hatched,  and  especially  as 
the  time  for  the  little  ones'  exodus  drew 
near.  At  first,  notwithstanding  their  door 
opened  right  upon  the  street,  as  it  were, 


94  A  BIRD'S-NEST  HUNTER. 

within  a  rod  or  two  of  passing  horse-cars, 
the  father  and  mother  went  in  and  out 
without  the  least  apparent  concern  as  to 
who  might  be  watching  them  ;  but  when 
they  came  to  be  feeding  their  hungry  off- 
spring, it  was  almost  laughable  to  witness 
the  little  craftinesses  to  which  they  resorted. 
They  would  perch  on  one  of  the  outer 
branches,  call  chickadee,  dee,  fly  a  little 
nearer,  then  likely  enough  go  further  off, 
till  finally,  after  a  variety  of  such  "  false 
motions,"  into  the  hole  they  would  duck,  as 
if  nobody  for  the  world  must  be  allowed  to 
know  where  they  had  gone.  It  was  really 
wonderful  how  expert  they  grew  at  enter- 
ing quickly.  I  pondered  a  good  deal  over 
their  continual  calling  on  such  occasions. 
It  seemed  foolish  and  inconsistent ;  half  the 
time  I  should  have  failed  to  notice  their  ap- 
proach, had  they  only  kept  still.  Toward 
the  end,  however,  when  the  chicks  inside 
the  trunk  could  be  heard  articulating  chick- 
adee, dee  with  perfect  distinctness,  it  oc- 
curred to  me  that  possibly  all  this  persistent 
repetition  of  the  phrase  by  the  old  birds 
had  been  only  or  mainly  in  the  way  of  tui- 
tion. At  all  events,  the  youngsters  had 


A  BIRD'S-NEST  HUNTER.  95 

this  part  of  the  chickadese  vocabulary  right 
at  their  tongues'  end,  as  we  say,  before 
making  their  debut  in  the  great  world. 

But  it  was  reserved  for  my  third  pair  of 
tits  to  give  me  a  genuine  surprise.  I  had 
been  so  constant  a  visitor  at  their  house 
that  I  had  come  to  feel  myself  quite  on 
terms  of  intimacy  with  them.  So,  after 
their  brood  was  hatched,  I  one  day  climbed 
into  the  tree  (as  I  had  done  more  than  once 
before),  the  better  to  overlook  their  paren- 
tal labors.  I  had  hardly  placed  myself  in  a 
comfortable  seat  before  the  couple  returned 
from  one  of  their  foraging  expeditions. 
The  male  —  or  the  one  that  I  took  for  such 
—  had  a  black  morsel  of  some  kind  in  his 
bill,  which,  on  reaching  the  tree,  he  passed 
over  to  his  mate,  who  forthwith  carried  it 
into  the  hollow  stub,  in  the  depths  of  which 
the  hungry  little  ones  were.  Then  the  male 
flew  off  again,  and  presently  came  back  with 
another  beakful,  which  his  helpmeet  took 
from  him  at  the  door,  where  she  had  been 
awaiting  his  arrival.  After  this  perform- 
ance had  been  repeated  two  or  three  times, 
curiosity  led  me  to  stand  up  against  the 
stub,  with  my  hand  resting  upon  it ;  at 


96  A  BIR&S-NEST  HUNTER. 

which  the  female  (who  was  just  inside  the 
mouth  of  the  cavity)  slipped  out,  and  set  up 
an  anxious  chickadee,  dee,  dee.  When  her 
mate  appeared,  —  which  he  did  almost  im- 
mediately, —  he  flew  into  what  looked  like 
a  downright  paroxysm  of  rage,  not  against 
me,  but  against  the  mother  bird,  shaking 
his  wings  and  scolding  violently.  I  came 
to  the  unhappy  lady's  relief  as  best  I  could 
by  dropping  to  the  ground,  and  within  a 
few  minutes  the  pair  again  approached  the 
stub  in  company  ;  but  when  the  female 
made  a  motion  to  take  the  food  from  her 
husband's  bill,  as  before,  he  pounced  upon 
her  spitefully,  drove  her  away,  and  dived 
into  the  hole  himself.  Apparently  he  had 
not  yet  forgiven  what  he  accounted  her  pu- 
sillanimous desertion  of  her  charge.  All 
in  all,  the  scene  was  a  revelation  to  me,  a 
chickadee  family  quarrel  being  something 
the  like  of  which  I  had  never  dreamed  of. 
Perhaps  no  titmouse  ever  before  had  so 
timorous  a  wife.  But  however  that  might 
be,  I  sincerely  hoped  that  they  would  not 
be  long  in  making  up  their  difference.  I 
had  enjoyed  the  sight  of  their  loving  inter- 
course for  so  many  weeks  that  I  should  have 


A  BIR&S-NEST  HUNTER.  97 

been  sorry  indeed  to  believe  that  it  could 
end  in  strife.  Nor  could  I  regard  it  as  so 
unpardonable  a  weakness  for  a  bird  to  move 
off,  even  from  her  young,  when  a  man  put 
his  fingers  within  a  few  inches  of  her.  Pos- 
sibly she  ought  to  have  known  that  I  meant 
no  mischief.  Possibly,  too,  her  doughty 
lord  would  have  behaved  more  coinmend- 
ably  in  the  same  circumstances ;  but  of  that 
I  am  by  no  means  certain.  To  borrow  a 
theological  term,  my  conception  of  bird 
nature  is  decidedly  anthropomorphic,  and  I 
incline  to  believe  that  chickadees  as  well  as 
men  find  it  easier  to  blame  others  than  to 
do  better  themselves. 

Here  these  reminiscences  must  come  to  an 
end,  though  the  greater  part  of  my  season's 
experiences  are  still  untouched.  First,  how- 
ever, let  me  relieve  my  conscience  by  put- 
ting on  record  the  bravery  of  a  black-billed 
cuckoo,  whom  I  was  obliged  fairly  to  drive 
from  her  post  of  duty.  Her  nest  was  a 
sorry  enough  spectacle,  —  a  flat,  unwalled 
platform,  carpeted  with  willow  catkins  and 
littered  with  egg-shells,  in  the  midst  of 
which  latter  lay  a  single  callow  nestling, 
nearly  as  black  as  a  crow.  But  as  I  looked 


98  A  BIR&S-NEST  HUNTER. 

at  the  parent  bird,  while  she  sat  within  ten 
feet  of  me,  eying  my  every  movement  in- 
tently, and  uttering  her  wrath  in  various 
cries  (some  catlike  me  wings  among  them), 
my  heart  reproached  me  that  I  had  ever 
written  of  the  cuckoo  as  a  coward  and  a 
sneak.  Truth  will  not  allow  me  to  take  the 
words  back  entirely,  even  now ;  but  I  felt 
at  that  moment,  and  do  still,  that  I  might 
have  been  better  employed  mending  my 
own  faults  than  in  holding  up  to  scorn  the 
foibles  of  a  creature  who,  when  worst  came 
to  worst,  could  set  me  such  a  shining  exam- 
ple of  courageous  fidelity.  It  is  always  in 
order  to  be  charitable ;  and  I  ought  to  have 
remembered  that,  for  those  who  are  them- 
selves subject  to  imperfection,  generosity  is 
the  best  kind  of  justice. 


A  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  CORN-FIELD. 

Thus,  without  theft,  I  reap  another's  field.  —  SIDNEY 
LANIER. 

I  WAS  passing  some  days  of  idleness  in 
a  shallow  Vermont  valley,  situated  at  an 
elevation  of  fifteen  or  sixteen  hundred  feet, 
circled  by  wooded  hills,  and  intersected  by 
an  old  turnpike,  which  connects  the  towns 
near  Lake  Champlain  with  the  region  be- 
yond the  mountains.  Small  farmhouses 
stood  here  and  there  along  the  highway, 
while  others  were  scattered  at  wide  inter- 
vals over  the  lower  slopes  of  the  outlying 
hills. 

With  all  the  brightness  and  freshness 
of  early  summer  upon  it,  it  was  indeed 
an  enchanting  picture;  but  even  so,  one 
could  not  altogether  put  aside  a  feeling  of 
something  like  commiseration  for  the  peo- 
ple who,  year  in  and  year  out,  from  baby- 
hood to  old  age,  found  in  this  narrow 
vale,  with  its  severity  of  weather,  and  its 


100    A   GREEN  MOUNTAIN  CORN-FIELD. 

scarcity  of  social  comforts  and  opportuni- 
ties, their  only  experience  of  what  we  fondly 
call  this  wide,  wide  world. 

From  my  inn  I  had  walked  eastward  for 
perhaps  a  mile;  then  at  the  little  school- 
house  had  taken  a  cross-road,  which  pres- 
ently began  to  climb.  Here  I  passed  two 
or  three  cottages  (one  of  them  boasting  the 
singularity  of  paint),  and  after  a  while  came 
to  another,  which  appeared  to  be  the  last, 
as  the  road  not  far  beyond  struck  into  the 
ancient  forest.  First,  however,  it  ran  up 
to  a  small  plateau,  where,  out  of  sight  from 
the  house,  lay  a  scanty  quarter  of  an  acre, 
in  which  the  old  parable,  "  First  the  blade, 
then  the  ear,  then  the  full  corn  in  the  ear," 
was  in  the  primary  stage  of  its  fresh  annual 
fulfillment.  The  ground  was  but  newly 
cleared,  and  the  brambles  still  felt  them- 
selves its  true  and  rightful  possessors.  Who 
was  this  puny-looking,  good-for-nothing  for- 
eigner, that  they  should  be  turned  out  of 
house  and  home  for  his  accommodation  ? 
So  they  seemed  to  be  asking  among  thern- 
selyes,  as  they  lifted  up  their  heads  here  and 
there  in  the  midst  of  the  pale-green  shoots. 
The  crows,  on  the  other  hand,  bade  the  new- 


A   GREEN  MOUNTAIN  CORN-FIELD.    101 

comer  welcome,  —  S3  the  wolf  welcomes  the 
lamb.  Against  these  hungry  lovers  of  his 
crop  (who  loved  not  unwisely,  but  too  well), 
the  farmer  had  fenced  his  field  with  a  single 
string,  stretched  from  corner  to  corner.  He 
must  put  extraordinary  faith  in  the  con- 
siderateness  of  the  birds,  a  looker-on  might 
think;  such  a  barrier  as  this  could  be,  at 
the  most,  nothing  more  than  a  polite  hint 
of  ownership,  a  delicate  reminder  against 
thoughtless  trespassing,  a  courteously  indi- 
rect suggestion  to  such  as  needed  not  a  phy- 
sical, but  only  a  moral,  restraint.  Or  one 
might  take  it  as  an  appeal  to  some  known 
or  fancied  superstitiousness  on  the  crows' 
part ;  as  if  the  white  cord  were  a  kind  of 
fetich,  with  which  they  would  never  pre- 
sume to  meddle.  But  the  rustic  would  have 
laughed  at  all  such  far-fetched  cockneyish 
inferences.  This  strange-seeming  device  of 
his  was  simply  an  attempt  to  take  the  sus- 
picious in  their  own  suspiciousness ;  to  set 
before  Corvus  a  hindrance  so  unmistakably 
insufficient  that  he  would  mistrust  it  as  a 
cover  for  some  deep-laid  and  deadly  plot. 
Probably  the  scheme  had  not  been  crowned 
with  complete  success  in  the  present  in- 


102    A  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  CORN-FIELD. 

stance,  for  from  a  pole  in  the  middle  of  the 
inclosure  a  dead  crow  was  dangling  in  the 
breeze.  This  was  a  more  business-like  sig- 
nal than  the  other ;  even  a  cockney  could 
hardly  be  in  doubt  as  to  its  meaning ;  and 
the  farmer,  when  I  afterwards  met  him, 
assured  me  that  it  had  answered  its  purpose 
to  perfection.  The  crow  is  nobody's  fool. 
"Live  and  learn"  is  his  motto;  and  he 
does  both,  but  especially  the  former,  in  a 
way  to  excite  the  admiration  of  all  disin- 
terested observers.  In  the  long  struggle 
between  human  ingenuity  and  corvine  sa- 
gacity, it  is  doubtful  which  has  thus  far 
obtained  the  upper  hand.  Nor  have  I  ever 
quite  convinced  myself  which  of  the  con- 
testants has  the  better  case.  "  The  crow  is 
a  thief,"  the  planter  declares ;  "  he  should 
confine  himself  to  a  wild  diet,  or  else  sow 
his  own  garden."  "  Yes,  yes,"  Corvus 
makes  reply  ;  "  but  if  I  steal  your  corn, 
you  first  stole  my  land."  Unlike  his  cousin 
the  raven,  —  who,  along  with  the  Indian, 
has  retreated  before  the  pale-face,  —  the 
crow  is  no  ultra  -  conservative.  Civiliza- 
tion and  modern  ideas  are  not  in  the  least 
distasteful  to  him.  He  has  an  unfeigned 


A  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  CORN-FIELD.    103 

respect  for  agriculture,  and  in  fact  may  be 
said  himself  to  have  set  up  as  gentleman- 
farmer,  letting  out  his  land  on  shares,  and 
seldom  failing  to  get  his  full  half  of  the 
crop  ;  and,  like  the  shrewd  manager  that  he 
is,  he  insures  himself  against  drought  and 
other  mischances  by  taking  his  moiety  early 
in  the  season.  As  I  plant  no  acres  myself, 
I  perhaps  find  it  easier  than  some  of  my 
fellow -citizens  to  bear  with  the  faults  and 
appreciate  the  virtues  of  this  sable  abori- 
ginal. Long  may  he  live,  I  say,  this  true 
lover  of  his  native  land,  to  try  the  patience 
and  sharpen  the  wits  of  his  would-be  exter- 
minators. 

The  crow's  is  only  the  common  lot.  The 
whole  earth  is  one  field  of  war.  Every 
creature's  place  upon  it  is  coveted  by  some 
other  creature.  Plants  and  animals  alike 
subsist  by  elbowing  their  rivals  out  of  the 
way.  Man,  if  he  plants  a  corn-field,  puts 
in  no  more  grains  than  will  probably  have 
room  to  grow  and  thrive.  But  Nature,  in 
her  abhorrence  of  a  vacuum,  stands  at  no 
waste.  She  believes  in  competition,  and 
feels  no  qualms  at  seeing  the  weak  go  to 
the  wall. 


104    A   GREEN  MOUNTAIN  CORN-FIELD. 

"  The  good  old  rule 
Sufficeth  her,  the  simple  plan, 
That  they  should  take  who  have  the  power, 
And  they  should  keep  who  can." 

If  she  wishes  a  single  oak,  she  drops  acorns 
without  number.  Her  recklessness  equals 
that  of  some  ambitious  military  despot,  to 
whom  ten  thousand  or  a  hundred  thousand 
dead  soldiers  count  as  nothing,  if  only  the 
campaign  be  fought  through  to  victory. 

Man's  economy  and  Nature's  prodigality, 
—  here  they  were  in  typical  operation,  side 
by  side.  The  corn  was  in  "  hills  "  uni- 
formly spaced,  and  evidently  the  proprietor 
had  already  been  at  work  with  plough  and 
hoe,  lest  the  weeds  should  spring  up  and 
choke  it ;  but  just  beyond  stood  a  perfect 
thicket  of  wild-cherry  shrubs,  so  huddled 
together  that  not  one  in  twenty  could  possi- 
bly find  room  in  which  to  develop.  If  they 
were  not  all  of  them  stunted  beyond  recov- 
ery, it  would  be  only  because  ja  few  of  the 
sturdiest  should  succeed  in  crowding  down 
and  killing  off  their  weaker  competitors. 

The  import  of  this  apparent  wastefulness 
and  cruelty  of  Nature,  her  seeming  indiffer- 
ence to  the  welfare  of  the  individual,  is  a 


A   GREEN  MOUNTAIN  CORN-FIELD.     105 

question  on  which  it  is  not  pleasant,  and,  as 
I  think,  not  profitable,  to  dwell.  We  see 
but  parts  of  her  ways,  and  it  must  be  unsafe 
to  criticise  the  working  of  a  single  wheel 
here  or  there,  when  we  have  absolutely  no 
means  of  knowing  how  each  fits  into  the 
grand  design,  and,  for  that  matter,  can  only 
guess  at  the  grand  design  itself.  Rather 
let  us  content  ourselves  with  the  prudent 
saying  of  that  ancient  agnostic,  Bildad  the 
Shuhite :  "  We  are  but  of  yesterday,  and 
know  nothing."  The  wisest  of  us  are  more 
or  less  foolish,  by  nature  and  of  necessity ; 
but  it  seems  a  gratuitous  superfluity  of  folly 
to  ignore  our  own  ignorance.  For  one, 
then,  I  am  in  no  mood  to  propose,  much 
less  to  undertake,  any  grand  revolution  in 
the  order  of  natural  events.  Indeed,  as  far 
as  I  am  personalty  concerned,  I  fear  it 
would  be  found  but  a  dubious  improvement 
if  the  wildness  were  quite  taken  out  of  the 
world,  —  if  its  wilderness,  according  to  the 
word  of  the  prophet,  were  to  become  all 
like  Eden.  Tameness  is  not  the  only  good 
quality,  whether  of  land  or  of  human 
nature. 

As  I  sat  on  my  comfortable  log  (the  noble 


106    A   GREEN  MOUNTAIN  CORN-FIELD. 

old  tree  had  not  been  cut  down  for  nothing), 
birds  of  many  kinds  came  and  went  about 
me.  Wordsworth's  couplet  would  have 
suited  my  case  :  — 

"  The  birds  around  me  hopped  and  played, 
Their  thoughts  I  cannot  measure  ;  " 

but  I  could  hardly  have  rounded  out  the 
quotation  ;  for,  joyful  as  I  believed  the  crea- 
tures to  be,  many  of  their  motions  were 
plainly  not  "  thrills  of  pleasure,"  but  tokens 
of  fear.  It  was  now  the  very  heyday  of 
life  with  them,  when  they  are  at  once  hap- 
piest and  most  wary.  There  were  secrets 
to  be  kept  close  ;  eggs  and  little  ones,  whose 
whereabouts  must  on  no  account  be  di- 
vulged. For  the  birds,  too,  not  less  than 
the  corn,  the  bramble,  and  the  cherry,  not 
less  even  than  the  saint,  find  this  earthly 
life  a  daily  warfare. 

The  artless  ditty  of  the  mourning  warbler 
came  to  my  ears  at  intervals  out  of  a  tangle 
of  shrubbery,  and  once  or  twice  he  allowed 
me  glimpses  of  his  quaint  attire.  I  would 
gladly  have  seen  and  heard  much  more  of 
him,  but  he  evaded  all  my  attempts  at 
familiarity.  Nor  could  I  blame  him  for  his 
furtive  behavior.  How  was  he  to  be  cer- 


A   GREEN  MOUNTAIN   CORN-FIELD.    107 

tain  that  I  was  no  collector,  but  only  an 
innocent  admirer  of  .birds  in  the  bush  ? 
Sought  after  as  his  carcass  is  by  every  New 
England  ornithologist,  the  mourning  war- 
bler exercises  only  a  reasonable  discretion 
in  fighting  shy  of  every  animal  that  walks 
upright. 

It  is  evident,  however,  that  for  birds,  as 
for  ourselves,  the  same  thing  often  has  both 
a  bright  and  a  dark  side.  If  men  are  some- 
times heartless,  and  never  to  be  altogether 
confided  in,  yet  at  the  same  time  their 
doings  are  in  various  respects  conducive  to 
the  happiness  and  increase  of  feathered 
life ;  and  this  not  only  in  the  case  of  some 
of  the  more  familiar  species,  but  even  in 
that  of  many  which  still  retain  all  their 
natural  shyness  of  human  society.  A  clear- 
ing like  that  in  which  I  was  now  resting 
offers  an  excellent  illustration  of  this ;  for 
it  is  a  rule  without  exceptions  that  in  such 
a  place  one  may  see  and  hear  more  birds  in 
half  an  hour  than  are  likely  to  be  met  with 
in  the  course  of  a  long  day's  tramp  through 
the  unbroken  forest.  The  mourning  war- 
bler himself  likes  a  roadside  copse  better 
than  a  deep  wood,  jealous  as  he  may  be  of 


108    A   GREEN  MOUNTAIN  CORN-FIELD. 

man's  approach.  Up  to  a  certain  point, 
civilization  is  a  blessing,  even  to  birds. 
Beyond  a  certain  point,  for  aught  I  know, 
it  may  be  nothing  but  a  curse,  even  to 
men. 

Here,  then,  I  sat,  now  taken  up  with  the 
beautiful  landscape,  and  anon  turning  my 
head  to  behold  some  fowl  of  the  air.  I 
might  have  mused  with  Emerson, — 

"  Knows  he  who  tills  this  lonely  field, 

To  reap  its  scanty  corn, 
What,  mystic  fruit  his  acres  yield 
At  midnight  and  at  morn," 

—  only  "  mystic  fruit "  would  have  been 
rather  too  high-sounding  a  phrase  for  my 
commonplace  cogitations.  Hermit  thrushes, 
olive -backed  thrushes,  and  veeries,  with 
sundry  warblers  and  a  scarlet  tanager,  sang 
in  chorus  from  the  woods  behind  me,  while 
in  front  bluebirds,  robins,  song  sparrows, 
vesper  sparrows,  and  chippers  were  doing 
their  best  to  transform  this  fresh  Vermont 
clearing  into  a  time-worn  Massachusetts 
pasture ;  assisted  meanwhile  by  a  goldfinch 
who  flew  over  my  head  with  an  ecstatic 
burst  of  melody,  and  a  linnet  who  fell  to 
warbling  with  characteristic  fluency  from  a 


A   GREEN  MOUNTAIN  CORN-FIELD.    109 

neighboring  tree-top.  At  least  two  pairs  of 
rose-breasted  grosbeaks  had  summer  quar- 
ters here ;  and  busy  enough  they  looked,  flit- 
ting from  one  side  of  the  garden  to  another, 
yet  not  too  busy  for  a  tune  between  whiles. 
One  of  the  males  was  in  really  gorgeous 
plumage.  The  rose-color  had  run  over,  as 
it  were  (like  Aaron's  "  precious  ointment "), 
and  spilled  all  down  his  breast.  It  is  hard 
for  me  ever  to  think  of  this  brilliant,  tropi- 
cally dressed  grosbeak  as  a  true  Northerner  ; 
and  here  once  more  I  was  for  the  moment 
surprised  to  hear  him  and  the  olive-backed 
thrush  singing  together  in  the  same  wood. 
Could  such  neighborliness  have  any  patri- 
otic significance  ?  I  was  almost  ready  to  ask. 
Across  the  corn-field  a  Traill's  flycatcher 
was  tossing  up  his  head  pertly,  and  vocifer- 
ating kwee-kwee.  I  took  it  for  a  challenge  : 
"  Find  my  nest  if  you  can,  brother ! "  But 
I  found  nothing.  Nor  was  I  more  success- 
ful with  a  humming-bird,  who  had  chosen 
the  tip  of  a  charred  stub,  only  a  few  rods 
from  my  seat,  for  his  favorite  perch.  Again 
and  again  I  saw  him  there  preening  his 
feathers,  and  once  or  twice  I  tried  to  invei- 
gle him  into  betraying  his  secret.  Either 


110     A   GREEN  MOUNTAIN  CORN-FIELD. 

his  house  was  further  off  than  I  suspected, 
however,  or  else  he  was  too  cunning  to  fall 
into  my  snare.  At  any  rate,  he  permitted 
me  to  trample  all  about  the  spot,  without 
manifesting  the  first  symptom  of  uneasiness. 
What  a  traveler  the  humming-bird  is  !  I 
myself  had  come  perhaps  three  hundred 
miles,  and  had  accounted  it  a  long,  tiresome 
journey,  notwithstanding  I  had  been  brought 
nearly  all  the  way  in  a  carriage  elaborately 
contrived  for  comfort,  and  moving  over  iron 
rails.  But  this  tiny  insect -like  creature 
spent  last  winter  in  Central  America,  or  it 
may  be  in  Cuba,  and  now  here  he  sat,  per- 
fectly at  home  again  in  this  Green  Moun- 
tain nook;  and  next  autumn  he  will  be  off 
again  betimes,  as  the  merest  matter  of 
course,  for  another  thousand -mile  flight. 
Verily,  a  marvelous  spirit  and  energy  may 
be  contained  within  a  few  ounces  of  flesh ! 
But  if  Trochilus  be  indeed  Prosperous  ser- 
vant in  disguise,  as  one  of  our  poets  makes 
out,  why,  then,  to  be  sure,  his  Sittings  back 
and  forth  are  little  to  wonder  at.  How 
slow,  overgrown,  and  clumsy  human  beings 
must  look  in  his  eyes !  I  wonder  if  he  is 
never  tempted  to  laugh  at  us.  Who  knows 


A  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  CORN-FIELD.    HI 

but  humming-birds  have  it  for  a  by-word, 
"  As  awkward  as  a  man  "  ? 

My  ruminations  were  suddenly  broken  in 
upon  by  the  approach  of  a  carriage,  driven 
by  a  boy  of  perhaps  ten  years,  a  son  of  the 
farmer  from  whose  land  I  was,  as  it  were, 
gathering  the  first  fruits.  We  had  made 
each  other's  acquaintance  the  day  before, 
and  now,  as  he  surmounted  the  hill,  he 
stopped  to  inquire  politely  whether  I  would 
ride  with  him.  Yes,  I  answered,  I  would 
gladly  be  carried  into  the  forest  a  little 
way.  It  proved  a  very  little  way  indeed  ; 
for  the  road  was  heavy  from  recent  rains, 
and  the  poor  old  hack  was  so  short  of 
breath  that  he  could  barely  drag  us  along, 
and  at  every  slump  of  the  wheels  came  to  a 
dead  standstill.  "Pity  for  a  horse  o'er- 
driven  "  soon  compelled  me  to  take  to  the 
woods,  in  spite  of  the  protestations  of  my 
charioteer,  who  assured  me  that  his  steed 
could  trot  "  like  everything,"  if  he  only 
would.  It  is  an  extremely  unpatriotic  Ver- 
monter,  I  suspect  (I  have  never  yet  discov- 
ered him),  who  will  not  brag  a  little  over 
his  horse ;  and  I  was  rather  pleased  than 
otherwise  to  hear  my  flaxen-haired  friend 


112    A   GREEN  MOUNTAIN  CORN-FIELD. 

set  forth  the  good  points  of  his  beast,  even 
while  he  confessed  that  the  "  heaves  "  were 
pretty  bad.  I  was  glad,  too,  to  find  the 
youngster  in  a  general  way  something  of  an 
optimist.  When  I  asked  him  how  long  the 
land  had  been  cleared,  he  pointed  to  one 
corner  of  it,  and  responded,  using  the  pro- 
noun with  perfect  naivete,  "  We  cleared  up 
that  piece  last  fall ;  "  and  on  my  inquiring 
whether  it  was  not  hard  work,  he  replied, 
in  a  tone  of  absolute  satisfaction,  "Oh,  yes, 
but  you  get  your  pay  for  it."  Evidently  he 
believed  in  Green  Mountain  land,  which  I 
thought  a  very  fortunate  circumstance.  "  Be 
content  with  such  things  as  ye  have,"  said 
the  Apostle ;  and  it  is  certainly  easier  to 
obey  the  precept  if  one  looks  upon  his  own 
things  as  the  best  in  the  world.  My  youthful 
philosopher  seemed  to  consider  it  altogether 
natural  and  reasonable  that  prosperity,  in- 
stead of  coming  of  itself,  should  have  to  be 
earned  by  the  sweat  of  the  brow.  Perhaps 
the  crow  and  the  cherry-tree  are  equally  un- 
sophisticated. Perhaps,  too,  men's  fates  are 
less  uneven  than  is  sometimes  supposed.  For 
I  could  not  help  thinking  that  if  this  boy 
should  retain  his  present  view  of  things,  he 


A   GREEN  MOUNTAIN  CORN-FIELD.    113 

would  pass  his  days  more  happily  than 
many  a  so-called  favorite  of  fortune. 

On  my  way  back  to  the  inn  I  met  an  old 
man  from  the  lowlands,  driving  over  the 
mountains  for  the  first  time  since  boyhood. 
"  You  have  a  pretty  good  farming  country 
here,"  he  called  out  cheerily,  —  "a  little 
rolling."  He  took  me  for  a  native,  and  I 
hope  to  be  forgiven  for  not  disclaiming  the 
compliment. 

As  I  write,  I  find  myself  wondering  how 
my  nameless  farmer's  crop  is  prospered. 
In  my  corner  of  the  world  we  have  lately 
been  afflicted  with  drought.  I  hope  it  has 
been  otherwise  on  his  hillside  plateau.  In 
my  thought,  at  all  events,  his  corn  is  now 
fully  tasseled,  and  waves  in  a  pleasant 
mountain  wind,  all  green  and  shining. 


BEHIND  THE  EYE. 

As  what  he  sees  is,  so  have  his  thoughts  been.  —  MAT- 
THEW ARNOLD. 

NOTHING  is  seen  until  it  is  separated 
from  its  surroundings.  A  man  looks  at  the 
landscape,  but  the  tree  standing  in  the  mid- 
dle of  the  landscape  he  does  not  see  until, 
for  the  instant  at  least,  he  singles  it  out  as 
the  object  of  vision.  Two  men  walk  the 
same  road ;  as  far  as  the  bystander  can  per- 
ceive, they  have  before  them  the  same 
sights ;  but  let  them  be  questioned  at  the 
end  of  the  journey,  and  it  will  appear  that 
one  man  saw  one  set  of  objects,  and  his 
companion  another ;  and  the  more  diverse 
the  intellectual  training  and  habits  of  the 
two  travelers,  the  greater  will  be  the  dis- 
crepancy between  the  two  reports. 

And  what  is  true  of  any  two  men  is 
equally  true  of  any  one  man  at  two  different 
times.  To-day  he  is  in  a  dreamy,  reflective 
mood,  —  he  has  been  reading  Wordsworth, 


BEHIND  THE  EYE.  115 

perhaps,  —  and  when  he  takes  his  afternoon 
saunter  he  looks  at  the  bushy  hillside,  or  at 
the  wayside  cottage,  or  down  into  the  loi- 
tering brook,  and  he  sees  in  them  all  such 
pictures  as  they  never  showed  him  before. 
Or  he  is  in  a  matter-of-fact  mood,  a  kind  of 
stock-market  frame  of  mind  ;  and  he  looks 
at  everything  through  economical  specta- 
cles?  —  as  if  he  had  been  set  to  appraise  the 
acres  of  meadow  or  woodland  through  which 
he  passes.  At  another  time  he  may  have 
been  reading  some  book  or  magazine  article 
written  by  Mr.  John  Burroughs ;  and  al- 
though he  knows  nothing  of  birds,  and  can 
scarcely  tell  a  crow  from  a  robin  (perhaps 
for  this  very  reason),  he  is  certain  to  have 
tantalizing  glimpses  of  some  very  strange 
and  wonderful  feathered  specimens.  They 
must  be  rarities,  at  least,  if  not  absolute 
novelties ;  and  likely  enough,  on  getting 
home,  he  sits  down  and  writes  to  Mr.  Bur- 
roughs a  letter  full  of  gratitude  and  inquiry, 
—  the  gratitude  very  pleasant  to  receive, 
we  may  presume,  and  the  inquiries  quite 
impossible  to  answer. 

Some  men  (not  many,  it  is  to  be  hoped) 
are  specialists,  and  nothing  else.     They  are 


116  BEHIND  THE  EYE. 

absorbed  in  farming,  or  in  shoemaking,  in 
chemistry,  or  in  Latin  grammar,  and  have 
no  thought  for  anything  beyond  or  beside. 
Others  of  us,  while  there  may  be  two  or 
three  subjects  toward  which  we  feel  some 
special  drawing,  have  nevertheless  a  general 
interest  in  whatever  concerns  humanity. 
We  are  different  men  on  different  days. 
There  is  a  certain  part  of  the  year,  say  from 
April  to  July,  when  I  am  an  ornithologist ; 
for  the  time  being,  as  often  as  I  go  out-of- 
doors,  I  have  an  eye  for  birds,  and,  com- 
paratively speaking,  for  nothing  else.  Then 
comes  a  season  during  which  my  walks  all 
take  on  a  botanical  complexion.  I  have  had 
my  turn  at  butterflies,  also ;  for  one  or  two 
summers  I  may  be  said  to  have  seen  little 
else  but  these  winged  blossoms  of  the  air. 
I  know,  too,  what  it  means  to  visit  the  sea- 
shore, and  scarcely  to  notice  the  breaking 
waves  because  of  the  shells  scattered  along 
the  beach.  In  short,  if  I  see  one  thing,  I 
am  of  necessity  blind,  or  half-blind,  to  all 
beside.  There  are  several  men  in  me,  and 
not  more  than  one  or  two  of  them  are  ever 
at  the  window  at  once.  Formerly,  my  en- 
joyment of  nature  was  altogether  reflective, 


BEHIND  THE  EYE.  117 

imaginative  ;  in  a  passive,  unproductive 
sense,  poetical.  I  delighted  in  the  woods 
and  fields,  the  seashore  and  the  lonely  road, 
not  for  the  birds  or  flowers  to  be  found 
there,  but  for  the  "  serene  and  blessed 
mood  "  into  which  I  was  put  by  such  friend- 
ship. Later  in  life,  it  transpired,  as  much 
to  my  surprise  as  to  anybody's  else,  that  I 
had  a  bent  toward  natural  history,  as  well 
as  toward  nature ;  an  inclination  to  study, 
as  well  as  to  dream  over,  the  beautiful  world 
about  me.  I  must  know  the  birds  apart, 
and  the  trees,  and  the  flowers.  A  bit  of 
country  was  no  longer  a  mere  landscape,  a 
picture,  but  a  museum  as  well.  For  a  time 
the  poet  seemed  to  be  dead  within  me ;  and 
happy  as  I  found  myself  in  my  new  pursuits, 
I  had  fits  of  bewailing  my  former  condition. 
Science  and  fancy,  it  appeared,  would  not 
travel  hand  in  hand ;  if  a  man  must  be  a 
botanist,  let  him  bid  good-by  to  the  Muse. 
Then  I  fled  again  to  Emerson  and  Words- 
worth, trying  to  read  the  naturalist  asleep 
and  reawaken  the  poet.  Happy  thought ! 
The  two  men,  the  student  and  the  lover, 
were  still  there ;  and  there  they  remain  to 
this  day.  Sometimes  one  is  at  the  window, 
sometimes  the  other. 


118  BEHIND  THE   KYE. 

So  it  is,  undoubtedly,  with  other  people. 
My  fellow-travelers,  who  hear  me  discours- 
ing enthusiastically  of  vireos  and  warblers, 
thrushes  and  wrens,  whilst  they  see  never  a 
bird,  unless  it  be  now  and  then  an  English 
sparrow  or  a  robin,  talk  sometimes  as  if  the 
difference  between  us  were  one  of  eyesight. 
They  might  as  well  lay  it  to  the  window- 
glass  of  our  respective  houses.  It  is  not 
the  eye  that  sees,  but  the  man  behind  the 
eye. 

As  to  the  comparative  advantages  and 
disadvantages  of  such  a  division  of  interests 
as  I  have  been  describing,  there  may  be 
room  for  two  opinions.  If  distinction  be 
all  that  the  student  hungers  for,  perhaps  he 
cannot  limit  himself  too  strictly ;  but  for 
myself,  I  think  I  should  soon  tire  of  my  own 
society  if  I  were  only  one  man,  —  a  botanist 
or  a  chemist,  an  artist,  or  even  a  poet.  I 
should  soon  tire  of  myself,  I  say  ;  but  I 
might  have  said,  with  equal  truth,  that  I 
should  soon  tire  of  nature;  for  if  I  were 
only  one  man,  I  should  see  only  one  aspect 
of  the  natural  world.  This  may  explain 
why  it  is  that  some  persons  must  be  forever 
moving  from  place  to  place.  If  they  travel 


BEHIND   THE  EYE.  119 

the  same  road  twice  or  thrice,  or  even  to 
the  hundredth  time,  they  see  only  one  set 
of  objects.  The  same  man  is  always  at  the 
window.  No  wonder  they  are  restless  and 
famished.  For  my  own  part,  though  I 
should  delight  to  see  new  lands  and  new 
people,  new  birds  and  new  plants,  I  ain 
nevertheless  pretty  well  contented  where  I 
am.  If  I  take  the  same  walks,  I  do  not  see 
the  same  things.  The  botanist  spells  the 
dreamer ;  and  now  and  then  the  lover  of 
beauty  keeps  the  ornithologist  in  the  back- 
ground till  he  is  thankful  to  come  once 
more  to  the  window,  though  it  be  only  to 
look  at  a  bluebird  or  a  song  sparrow. 

How  much  influence  has  the  will  in  de- 
termining which  of  these  several  tenants  of 
a  man's  body  shall  have  his  turn  at  sight- 
seeing? It  would  be  hard  to  answer  def- 
initely. As  much,  it  may  be,  as  a  teacher 
has  over  his  pupils,  or  a  father  over  his  chil- 
dren ;  something  depends  upon  the  strength 
of  the  governing  will,  and  something  upon 
the  tractability  of  the  pupil.  In  general,  I 
assume  to  command.  As  I  start  on  my 
ramble  I  give  out  word,  as  it  were,  which  of 
the  men  shall  have  the  front  seat.  But 


120  BEHIND  THE  EYE. 

there  are  days  when  some  one  of  them 
proves  too  much  both  for  me  and  for  his 
fellows.  It  is  not  the  botanist's  turn,  per- 
haps ;  but  he  takes  his  seat  at  the  window, 
notwithstanding,  and  the  ornithologist  and 
the  dreamer  must  be  content  to  peep  at 
the  landscape  over  his  shoulders. 

On  such  occasions,  it  may  as  well  be  con- 
fessed, I  make  but  a  feeble  remonstrance ; 
and  for  the  sufficient  reason  that  I  feel 
small  confidence  in  my  own  wisdom.  If  the 
flower-lover  or  the  poet  must  have  the  hour, 
then  in  all  likelihood  he  ought  to  have  it. 
So  much  I  concede  to  the  nature  of  things. 
A  strong  tendency  is  a  strong  argument, 
and  of  itself  goes  far  to  justify  itself.  I 
borrow  no  trouble  on  the  score  of  such  com- 
pulsions. On  the  contrary,  my  lamenta- 
tions begin  when  nobody  sues  for  the  place 
of  vision.  Such  days  I  have ;  blank  days, 
days  to  be  dropped  from  the  calendar;  when 
"  those  that  look  out  of  the  windows  be 
darkened."  The  fault  is  not  with  the 
world,  nor  with  the  eye.  The  old  preacher 
had  the  right  of  it ;  it  is  not  the  windows 
that  are  darkened,  but  "  those  that  look  out 
of  the  windows." 


A  NOVEMBER  CHRONICLE. 

I  Ve  gathered  young  spring-leaves,  and  flowers  gay.  — 
KEATS. 

I  LOOKED  forward  to  the  month  with 
peculiar  interest,  as  it  was  many  years  since 
I  had  passed  a  November  in  the  country, 
and  now  that  it  is  over  I  am  moved  to  pub- 
lish its  praises :  partly,  as  I  hope,  out  of 
feelings  of  gratitude,  and  partly  because  it 
is  an  agreeable  kind  of  originality  to  com- 
mend what  everybody  else  has  been  in  the 
habit  of  decrying. 

In  the  first  place,  then,  it  was  a  month  of 
pleasant  weather;  something  too  much  of 
wind  and  dust  (the  dust  for  only  the  first 
ten  days)  being  almost  the  only  drawback. 
To  me,  with  my  prepossessions,  it  was  little 
short  of  marvelous  how  many  of  the  days 
were  nearly  or  quite  cloudless.  The  only 
snow  fell  on  the  llth.  I  saw  a  few  flakes 
in  the  afternoon,  just  enough  to  be  counted, 
and  there  must  have  been  another  slight 


122  A  NOVEMBER  CHRONICLE. 

flurry  after  dark,  as  the  grass  showed  white 
in  favorable  spots  early  the  next  morning. 
Making  allowance  for  the  shortness  of  the 
days,  I  doubt  whether  there  has  been  a 
month  during  the  past  year  in  which  a  man 
could  comfortably  spend  more  of  his  time 
in  out-of-door  exercise. 

The  trees  were  mostly  bare  before  the 
end  of  October,  but  the  apple  and  cherry 
trees  still  kept  their  branches  green  (they 
are  foreigners,  and  perhaps  have  been  used 
to  a  longer  season),  and  the  younger  growth 
of  gray  birches  lighted  up  the  woodlands 
with  pale  yellow.  Of  course  the  oak-leaves 
were  still  hanging,  also ;  and  for  that  mat- 
ter they  are  hanging  yet,  and  will  be  for 
months  to  come,  let  the  north  wind  blow 
as  it  may.  I  wonder  whether  their  winter 
rustling  sounds  as  cold  in  other  ears  as  in 
mine.  My  own  feeling  is  most  likely  the 
result  of  boyish  associations.  How  often  I 
waded  painfully  through  the  forest  paths, 
my  feet  and  hands  half  frozen,  while  these 
ghosts  of  summer  shivered  sympathetically 
on  every  side  as  they  saw  me  pass  !  I  won- 
der, too,  what  can  be  the  explanation  of  this 
unnatural  oak-tree  habit.  The  leaves  are 


A  NOVEMBER  CHRONICLE.  123 

dead ;  why  should  they  not  obey  the  general 
law,  —  "  ashes  to  ashes,  dust  to  dust "  ?  Is 
our  summer  too  short  to  ripen  them,  and  so 
to  perfect  the  articulation  ?  Whatever  its 
cause,  their  singular  behavior  does  much  to 
beautify  the  landscape ;  particularly  in  such 
a  district  as  mine,  where  the  rocky  hills  are, 
so  many  of  them,  covered  with  young  oak 
forests,  which,  especially  for  the  first  half  of 
November,  before  the  foliage  is  altogether 
faded,  are  dressed  in  subdued  shades  of  ma- 
roon, beautiful  at  all  hours,  but  touched 
into  positive  glory  by  the  level  rays  of  the 
afternoon  sun. 

I  began  on  the  very  first  day  of  the  month 
to  make  a  list  of  the  plants  found  in  bloom, 
and  happening,  a  week  afterward,  to  be  in 
the  company  of  two  experienced  botanical 
collectors,  I  asked  them  how  many  species 
I  was  likely  to  find.  One  said  thirty.  The 
other,  after  a  little  hesitation,  replied,  "  I 
don't  know,  but  I  should  n't  think  you 
could  find  a  dozen."  Well,  it  is  true  that 
November  is  not  distinctively  a  floral  month 
in  Massachusetts,  but  before  its  thirty  days 
were  over  I  had  catalogued  seventy-three 
species,  though  for  six  of  these,  to  be  sure, 


124  A  NOVEMBER  CHRONICLE. 

I  have  to  thank  one  of  the  collectors  just 
now  mentioned.  Indeed,  I  found  thirty- 
nine  sorts  on  my  first  afternoon  ramble; 
and  even  as  late  as  the  27th  and  28th  I 
counted  twelve.  All  in  all,  there  is  little 
doubt  that  at  least  a  hundred  kinds  of  plants 
were  in  bloom  about  me  during  the  month. 
Having  called  my  record  a  chronicle,  I 
should  be  guilty  of  an  almost  wanton  disre- 
gard of  scriptural  models  if  I  did  not  fill  it 
largely  with  names,  and  accordingly  I  do 
'  not  hesitate  to  subjoin  a  full  list  of  these 
my  November  flowers ;  omitting  Latin  ti- 
tles, —  somewhat  unwillingly,  I  confess,  — 
except  where  the  vernacular  is  wanting 
altogether,  or  else  is  more  than  commonly 
ambiguous :  —  creeping  buttercup,  tall  but- 
tercup, field  larkspur,  celandine,  pale  cory- 
dalis,  hedge  mustard,  shepherd's-purse,  wild 
peppergrass,  sea-rocket,  wild  radish,  com- 
mon blue  violet,  bird-foot  violet,  pansy, 
Deptford  pink,  common  chickweed,  larger 
mouse-ear  chickweed,  sand  spurrey,  knawel, 
common  mallow,  herb-robert,  storksbill,  red 
clover,  alsyke,  white  clover,  white  sweet 
clover,  black  medick,  white  avens,  common 
cinque- foil,  silvery  cinque -foil,  witch-hazel, 


A  NOVEMBER  CHtlOtilCLE.  125 

common  evening-primrose,  smaller  evening- 
primrose,  carrot,  blue-stemmed  golden-rod, 
white  golden-rod  (or  silvery-rod),  seaside 
golden -rod,  Solidago  juncea,  Solidago  ru- 
gosa,  dusty  golden -rod,  early  golden -rod, 
corymbed  aster,  wavy-leaved  aster,  heart- 
leaved  aster,  many-flowered  aster,  Aster  vi~ 
mineus,  Aster  diffusus,  New  York  aster, 
Aster  puniceus,  narrow  -  leaved  aster,  flea- 
bane,  horse-weed,  everlasting,  cudweed,  cone- 
flower,  mayweed,  yarrow,  tansy,  groundsel, 
burdock,  Canada  thistle,  fall  dandelion, 
common  dandelion,  sow  thistle,  Indian 
tobacco,  bell-flower  (Campanula  rapun- 
culoides),  fringed  gentian,  wild  toad-flax, 
butter  and  eggs,  self  -  heal,  motherwort, 
jointweed,  doorweed,  and  ladies'  tresses 
(Spiranthes  cernud). 

Here,  then,  we  have  seventy-three  species, 
all  but  one  of  which  (Spiranthes  cernud) 
are  of  the  class  of  exogens.  Twenty-two 
orders  are  represented,  the  great  autumnal 
family  of  the  Cpmpositce  naturally  taking 
the  lead,  with  thirty  species  (sixteen  of 
them  asters  and  golden -rods),  while  the 
mustard,  pink,  and  pulse  families  come 
next,  with  five  species  each.  The  large  and 


126  A  NOVEMBER  CHRONICLE. 

hardy  heath  family  is  wanting  altogether. 
Out  of  the  whole  number  about  forty-three 
are  indigenous.  Witch-hazel  is  the  only 
shrub,  and,  as  might  have  been  expected, 
there  is  no  climbing  plant. 

In  setting  down  such  a  list  one  feels  it  a 
pity  that  so  few  of  the  golden-rods  and  as- 
ters have  any  specific  designation  in  Eng- 
lish. Under  this  feeling,  I  have  presumed 
myself  to  name  two  of  the  golden -rods, 
Solidago  Canadensis  and  Solidago  nemora- 
lis.  With  us,  at  all  events,  the  former  is 
the  first  of  its  genus  to  blossom,  and  may 
appropriately  enough  wear  the  title  of  early 
golden-rod,  while  the  latter  must  have  been 
noticed  by  everybody  for  its  peculiar  gray- 
ish, "  dusty-miller  "  foliage.  It  has,  more- 
over, an  exceptional  right  to  a  vernacular 
name,  being  both  one  of  the  commonest 
and  one  of  the  showiest  of  our  roadside 
weeds.  Till  something  better  is  proposed, 
therefore,  let  us  call  it  the  dusty  golden-rod. 

It  must  in  fairness  be  acknowledged  that 
I  did  not  stand  upon  the  quality  of  my 
specimens.  Many  of  them  were  nothing 
but  accidental  and  not  very  reputable-look- 
ing laggards;  but  in  November,  especially 


A  NOVEMBER  CHRONICLE.  127 

if  one  is  making  a  list,  a  blossom  is  a  blos- 
som. The  greater  part  of  the  asters  and 
golden-rods,  I  think,  were  plants  that  had 
been  broken  down  by  one  means  or  another, 
and  now,  at  this  late  day,  had  put  forth  a 
few  stunted  sprays.  The  narrow-leaved  as- 
ter ( Aster  linariifolius)  seemed  peculiarly 
out  of  season,  and  was  represented  by  only 
two  heads,  but  these  sufficed  to  bring  the 
mouth-filling  name  into  my  catalogue.  Of 
the  two  species  of  native  violets  I  saw  but 
a  single  blossom  each.  My  pansy  (common 
enough  in  gardens,  and  blooming  well  into 
December)  was,  of  course,  found  by  the 
roadside,  and  the  larkspur  likewise,  as  I 
made  nothing  of  any  but  wild  plants. 

At  this  time  of  the  year  one  must  not 
expect  to  pick  flowers  anywhere  and  every- 
where, and  a  majority  of  all  my  seventy- 
three  species  (perhaps  as  many  as  two 
thirds)  were  found  only  in  one  or  more  of 
three  particular  places.  The  first  of  these 
was  along  a  newly  laid-out  road  through  a 
tract  of  woodland ;  the  second  was  a  shel- 
tered wayside  nook  between  high  banks; 
and  the  third  was  at  the  seashore.  At  this 
last  place,  on  the  8th  of  the  month,  I  came 


128  A  NOVEMBER  CHRONICLE. 

unexpectedly  upon  a  field  fairly  yellow  with 
fall  dandelions  and  silvery  cinque-foils,  and 
affording  also  my  only  specimens  of  bur- 
dock, Canada  thistle,  cone-flower,  and  the 
smaller  evening -primrose;  in  addition  to 
which  were  the  many-flowered  aster,  yar- 
row, red  clover,  and  sow  thistle.  In  truth, 
the  grassy  hillside  was  quite  like  a  garden, 
although  there  was  no  apparent  reason  why 
it  should  be  so  favored.  The  larger  even- 
ing-primrose, of  which  I  saw  two  stalks,  one 
of  them  bearing  six  or  eight  blossoms,  was 
growing  among  the  rocks  just  below  the 
edge  of  the  cliff,  in  company  with  abun- 
dance of  sow  thistle,  all  perfectly  fresh  ; 
while  along  the  gravelly  edge  of  the  bank, 
just  above  them,  was  the  groundsel  (Sene- 
cio  vulgari9)i  looking  as  bright  and  thrifty 
as  if  it  had  been  the  first  of  August  instead 
of  near  the  middle  of  November. 

Perhaps  my  most  surprising  bit  of  good 
luck  was  the  finding  of  the  Deptford  pink. 
Of  this,  for  some  inscrutable  reason,  one 
plant  still  remained  green  and  showed  sev- 
eral rosy  blossoms,  while  all  its  fellows,  far 
and  near,  were  long  since  bleached  and 
dead.  Fortune  has  her  favorites,  even 


A  NOVEMBER  CHRONICLE.  129 

among  pinks.  The  frail  -  looking,  early- 
blooming  corydalis  (we  have  few  plants 
that  appear  loss  able  to  bear  exposure)  waH 
in  excellent  condition  up  to  the  very  end 
of  the  month,  though  the  one  patch  then 
explored  was  destitute  of  flowers.  These 
were  as  pretty  as  could  be  —  prettier  even 
ilr.ui  in  May,  I  thought  —  on  the  16th,  anc1 
no  doubt  might  have  been  found  on  the 
80th,  with  careful  search.  The  little  gera- 
nium known  as  herb-robert  is  a  neighbor  of 
the  corydalis,  and,  like  it,  stands  the  cold 

n:m;uU;il>ly  well.  Us  middling,  finely  cut, 
leaves  were  fresh  and  flourishing,  but  though 
I  often  looked  for  its  flowers,  I  found  only 
one  during  the  entire  month.  The  storks- 
bill,  its  less  known  cousin,  does  not  grow 
within  my  limits,  but  came  to  me  from 
Essex  County,  through  the  kindness  <>i  :t 
friend,  being  one  of  the  six  species  cont  i  il» 
uted  by  her,  as  I  have  before  mentioned. 

The  hardiness  of  some  of  these  late 
bloomers  is  surprising.  It  is  now  the  2d 
of  December,  and  yesterday  the  tempera- 
ture fell  about  thirty  degrees  below  the 
freezing-point,  yet  I  notice  shepherd's-purse, 
peppergrass,  chick  weed,  and  knawel  still 


130  A  NOVEMBER  CHRONICLE. 

bearing  fresh-looking  flowers.  Nor  are  they 
the  only  plants  that  seem  thus  impervious 
to  cold.  The  prostrate  young  St.  John's- 
wort  shoots,  for  instance,  all  uncovered  and 
delicate  as  they  are,  appear  not  to  know 
that  winter  with  all  its  rigors  is  upon  them. 

It  was  impossible  not  to  sympathize  ad- 
miringly with  some  of  my  belated  asters  and 
golden-rods.  Their  perseverance  was  truly 
pathetic.  They  had  been  hindered,  but 
they  meant  to  finish  their  appointed  task, 
nevertheless,  in  spite  of  short  days  and  cold 
weather.  I  have  especially  in  mind  a  plant 
of  Solidago  juncea.  The  species  is  nor- 
mally one  of  the  earliest,  following  hard 
upon  Solidago  Canadensis,  but  for  some 
reason  this  particular  specimen  did  not  be- 
gin to  flower  till  after  the  first  heavy  frosts. 
Indeed,  when  I  first  noticed  it,  the  stem 
leaves  were  already  frost-bitten ;  yet  it  kept 
on  putting  forth  blossoms  for  at  least  a  fort- 
night. Whatever  may  be  true  of  the  lilies 
of  the  field,  this  golden-rod  was  certainly  a 
toiler,  and  of  the  most  persistent  sort. 

Early  in  the  month  the  large  and  hardy 
Antiopa  butterflies  were  still  not  uncommon 
in  the  woods,  and  on  the  3d  —  a  delightful, 


A  NOVEMBER  CHRONICLE.  131 

summer-like  day,  in  which  I  made  a  pil- 
grimage to  Walden  —  I  observed  a  single 
clouded- sulphur  (Philodice),  looking  none 
the  worse  for  the  low  temperature  of  the 
night  before,  when  the  smaller  ponds  had 
frozen  over  for  the  first  time. 

Of  course  I  kept  account  of  the  birds  as 
well  as  of  the  flowers,  but  the  number,  both 
of  individuals  and  of  species,  proved  to  be 
surprisingly  small,  the  total  list  being  as 
follows :  —  great  black-backed  gull,  Ameri- 
can herring  gull,  ruffed  grouse,  downy  wood- 
pecker, flicker,  blue  jay,  crow,  horned  lark, 
purple  finch,  red  crossbill,  goldfinch,  snow 
bunting,  Ipswich  sparrow,  white  -  throated 
sparrow,  tree  sparrow,  snowbird,  song  spar- 
row, fox  sparrow,  Northern  shrike,  myrtle 
warbler,  brown  creeper,  white-breasted  nut- 
hatch, chickadee,  golden-crowned  kinglet, 
and  robin.  Here  are  only  twenty-five  spe- 
cies ;  a  meagre  catalogue,  which  might  have 
been  longer,  it  is  true,  but  for  the  patriot- 
ism or  prejudice  (who  will  presume  always 
to  decide  between  these  two  feelings,  one  of 
them  so  given  to  counterfeiting  the  other?) 
which  would  not  allow  me  to  piece  it  out 
with  the  name  of  that  all  too  numerous 
parasite,  the  so-called  English  sparrow. 


132  A  NOVEMBER   CHRONICLE. 

My  best  ornithological  day  was  the  17th, 
which,  with  a  friend  like-minded,  I  passed 
at  Ipswich  Beach.  The  special  object  of  our 
search  was  the  Ipswich  sparrow,  a  bird  un- 
known to  science  until  1868,  when  it  was 
discovered  at  this  very  place  by  Mr.  May- 
nard.  Since  then  it  has  been  found  to  be 
a  regular  fall  and  winter  visitant  along  the 
Atlantic  coast,  passing  at  least  as  far  south 
as  New  Jersey.  It  is  a  mystery  how  the 
creature  could  so  long  have  escaped  detec- 
tion. One  cannot  help  querying  whether 
there  can  be  another  case  like  it.  Who 
knows  ?  Science,  even  in  its  flourishing 
modern  estate,  falls  a  trifle  short  of  omnis- 
cience. 

My  comrade  and  I  separated  for  a  little, 
losing  sight  of  each  other  among  the  sand- 
hills, and  when  we  came  together  again  he 
reported  that  he  had  seen  the  sparrow.  He 
had  happened  upon  it  unobserved,  and  had 
been  favored  with  excellent  opportunities 
for  scrutinizing  it  carefully  through  a  glass 
at  short  range  ;  and  being  familiar  with  its 
appearance  through  a  study  of  cabinet  spec- 
imens, he  had  no  doubt  whatever  of  its 
identity.  This  was  within  five  minutes  cf 


A  NOVEMBER  CHRONICLE.  133 

our  arrival,  and  naturally  we  anticipated  no 
difficulty  in  finding  others ;  but  for  two  or 
three  hours  we  followed  the  chase  in  vain. 
Twice,  to  be  sure,  a  sparrow  of  some  sort 
flew  up  in  front  of  us,  but  in  both  cases  it 
got  away  without  our  obtaining  so  much  as 
a  peep  at  it.  Up  and  down  the  beach  we 
went,  exploring  the  basins  and  sliding  down 
the  smooth,  steep  hills.  Every  step  was 
interesting,  but  it  began  to  look  as  if  I 
must  go  home  without  seeing  Ammodramus 
princeps.  But  patience  was  destined  to 
have  its  reward,  and  just  as  we  were  tra- 
versing the  upper  part  of  the  beach  for  the 
last  time,  I  caught  a  glimpse  of  a  bird 
skulking  in  the  grass  before  us.  He  had 
seen  us  first,  and  was  already  on  the  move, 
ducking  behind  the  scattered  tufts  of  beach- 
grass,  crouching  and  running  by  turns ;  but 
we  got  satisfactory  observations,  neverthe- 
less, and  he  proved  to  be,  like  the  other,  an 
Ipswich  sparrow.  He  did  not  rise,  but 
finally  made  off  through  the  grass  without 
uttering  a  sound.  Then  we  examined  his 
footprints,  and  found  them  to  be,  so  far  as 
could  be  made  out,  the  same  as  we  had  been 
noticing  all  about  among  the  hills. 


134  A  NOVEMBER  CHRONICLE. 

Meanwhile,  our  perambulations  had  not 
been  in  vain.  Flocks  of  snow  buntings 
were  seen  here  and  there,  and  we  spent  a 
long  time  in  watching  a  trio  of  horned 
larks.  These  were  feeding  amid  some 
stranded  rubbish,  and  apparently  felt  not 
the  slightest  suspicion  of  the  two  men  who 
stood  fifteen  or  twenty  feet  off,  eying  their 
motions.  It  was  too  bad  they  could  not 
hear  our  complimentary  remarks  about 
their  costumes,  so  tastefully  trimmed  with 
black  and  yellow.  Our  loudest  exclama- 
tions, however,  were  called  forth  by  a  dense 
flock  of  sea-gulls  at  the  distant  end  of  the 
beach.  How  many  hundreds  there  were  I 
should  not  dare  to  guess,  but  when  they 
rose  in  a  body  their  white  wings  really 
filled  the  air,  and  with  the  bright  sunlight 
upon  them  they  made,  for  a  landsman,  a 
spectacle  to  be  remembered. 

Altogether  it  was  a  high  day  for  two  en- 
thusiasts, though  no  doubt  it  would  have 
looked  foolish  enough  to  ordinary  mortals, 
our  spending  several  dollars  of  money  and  a 
whole  day  of  time,  —  in  November,  at  that, 
—  all  for  the  sake  of  ogling  a  few  birds,  not 
one  of  which  we  even  attempted  to  shoot. 


A  NOVEMBER   CHRONICLE.  135 

But  what  then  ?  Tastes  will  differ ;  and 
as  for  enthusiasm,  it  is  worth  more  than 
money  and  learning  put  together  (so  I  be- 
lieve, at  least,  without  having  experimented 
with  the  other  two)  as  a  producer  of  happi- 
ness. For  my  own  part,  I  mean  to  be  en- 
thusiastic as  long  as  possible,  foreseeing 
only  too  well  that  high  spirits  cannot  last 
forever. 

The  sand-hills  themselves  would  have  re- 
paid all  our  trouble.  Years  ago  this  land 
just  back  of  the  beach  was  covered  with 
forest,  while  at  one  end  of  it  was  a  flour- 
ishing farm.  Then  when  man,  with  his 
customary  foolishness,  cut  off  the  forest, 
Nature  revenged  herself  by  burying  his 
farm.  We  did  not  verify  the  fact,  but  ac- 
cording to  the  published  accounts  of  the 
matter  it  used  to  be  possible  to  walk  over 
the  grave  of  an  old  orchard,  and  pick  here 
and  there  an  apple  from  some  topmost 
branch  still  jutting  out  through  the  sand. 

Among  the  dunes  we  found  abundance  of 
a  little  red,  heath-Rke  plant,  still  in  full 
blossom.  Neither  of  us  recognized  it,  but 
it  turned  out  to  be  jointweed  (Polygonum 
articulatum),  and  made  a  famous  addition 
to  my  November  flower  catalogue. 


136  A  NOVEMBER  CHRONICLE. 

In  connection  with  all  this  I  ought,  per- 
haps, to  say  a  word  about  our  Ipswich 
driver,  especially  as  naturalists  are  some- 
times reprehended  for  taking  so  much  in- 
terest in  all  other  creatures,  and  so  little  in 
their  fellow-men.  As  we  drew  near  the 
beach,  which  is  some  five  miles  from  the 
town,  we  began  to  find  the  roads  quite  un- 
der water,  with  the  sea  still  rising.  We 
remarked  the  fact,  the  more  as  we  were  to 
return  on  foot,  whereupon  the  man  said 
that  the  tide  was  uncommonly  high  on  ac- 
count of  the  heavy  rain  of  the  day  before  ! 
A  little  afterward,  when  we  came  in  sight 
of  a  flock  of  gulls,  he  gravely  informed  us 
that  they  were  "  some  kind  of  ducks "  ! 
He  had  lived  by  the  seashore  all  his  life,  I 
suppose,  and  of  course  felt  entirely  compe- 
tent to  instruct  two  innocent  cockneys  such 
as  he  had  in  his  wagon. 

Four  days  after  this  I  made  a  trip  to 
Nahant.  If  Ammodramus  princeps  was  at 
Ipswich,  why  should  it  not  be  at  other  simi- 
lar places  ?  True  enough,  I  found  the  birds 
feeding  beside  the  road  that  runs  along  the 
beach.  I  chased  them  about  for  an  hour  or 
two  in  a  cold  high  wind,  and  stared  at  them 


A  NOVEMBER  CHRONICLE.  137 

till  I  was  satisfied.  They  fed  much  of  the 
time  upon  the  golden-rods,  alighted  freely 
upon  the  fence-posts  (which  is  what  some 
writers  would  lead  us  never  to  expect),  and 
often  made  use  of  the  regular  family  tseep. 
Two  of  them  kept  persistently  together,  as 
if  they  were  mated.  One  staggered  me 
by  showing  a  blotch  in  the  middle  of  the 
breast,  a  mark  that  none  of  the  published 
descriptions  mention,  but  which  I  have 
since  found  exemplified  in  one  of  the  skins 
at  the  Museum  of  Comparative  Zoology,  in 
Cambridge. 

"  A  day  is  happily  spent  that  shows  me 
any  bird  I  never  saw  alive  before."  So 
says  Dr.  Coues,  and  he  would  be  a  poor 
ornithologist  who  could  not  echo  the  senti- 
ment. The  Ipswich  sparrow  was  the  third 
such  bird  that  I  had  seen  during  the  year 
without  going  out  of  New  England,  the 
other  two  being  the  Tennessee  warbler  and 
the  Philadelphia  vireo. 

Of  the  remainder  of  my  November  list 
there  is  not  much  to  be  said.  Robins  were 
very  scarce  after  the  first  week.  My  last 
glimpse  of  them  was  on  the  20th,  when  I 
saw  two.  Tree  sparrows,  snowbirds,  chick- 


138  A  NOVEMBER  CHRONICLE. 

adees,  kinglets,  crows,  and  jays  were  often- 
est  met  with,  while  the  shrike,  myrtle  war- 
bler, purple  finch,  and  song  sparrow  were 
represented  by  one  individual  each.  My 
song  sparrow  was  not  seen  till  the  28th, 
after  I  had  given  him  up.  He  did  not  sing 
(of  course  he  scolded ;  the  song  sparrow 
can  always  do  that),  but  the  mere  sight  of 
him  was  enough  to  suggest  thoughts  of 
springtime,  especially  as  he  happened  to 
be  in  the  neighborhood  of  some  Pickering 
hylas,  which  were  then  in  full  cry  for  the 
only  time  during  the  month.  Near  the  end 
of  the  month  many  wild  geese  flew  over  the 
town,  but,  thanks  to  a  rebellious  tooth  (how 
happy  are  the  birds  in  this  respect !),  I  was 
shut  indoors,  and  knew  the  fact  only  by 
hearsay.  I  did,  however,  see  a  small  flock 
on  the  30th  of  October,  an  exceptionally 
early  date.  As  it  chanced,  I  was  walking 
at  the  time  with  one  of  my  neighbors,  a  man 
more  than  forty  years  old,  and  he  assured 
me  that  he  had  never  seen  such  a  thing 
before. 

For  music,  I  one  day  heard  a  goldfinch 
warbling  a  few  strains,  and  on  the  21st  a 
chickadee  repeated  his  clear  phoebe  whistle 


A  NOVEMBER  CHRONICLE.  139 

two  or  three  times.  The  chickadees  are 
always  musical,  —  there  is  no  need  to  say 
that ;  but  I  heard  them  sing  only  on  this 
one  morning. 

Altogether,  with  the  cloudless,  mild  days, 
the  birds,  the  tree-frogs,  the  butterflies,  and 
the  flowers,  November  did  not  seem  the 
bleak  and  cheerless  season  it  has  commonly 
been  painted-  Still  it  was  not  exactly  like 
summer.  On  the  last  day  I  saw  some 
very  small  boys  skating  on  the  Cambridge 
marshes,  and  the  next  morning  December 
showed  its  hand  promptly,  sending  the 
mercury  down  to  within  two  or  three  de- 
grees of  zero. 


NEW  ENGLAND  WINTER. 

While  I  enjoy  the  friendship  of  the  seasons,  I  trust  that 
nothing  can  make  life  a  burden  to  me.  —  THOREAU. 

THOSE  who  will  have  us  all  to  be  study- 
ing the  Sacred  Books  of  the  East,  and  other 
such  literature,  are  given  to  laying  it  down 
as  an  axiom  that  whoever  knows  only  one 
religion  knows  none  at  all,  —  an  assertion,  I 
am  bound  to  acknowledge,  that  commends 
itself  to  my  reason,  notwithstanding  the 
somewhat  serious  inferences  fairly  deduci- 
ble  from  it  touching  the  nature  and  worth 
of  certain  convictions  of  my  own,  which  I 
have  been  wont  to  look  upon  as  religious.  I 
cannot  profess  ever  to  have  pried  into  the 
mysteries  of  any  faith  except  Christianity. 
So,  of  course,  I  do  not  understand  even  that. 
And  the  people  about  me,  so  far  as  I  can 
discover,  are  all  in  the  same  predicament. 
Yet  I  would  fain  believe  that  we  are  not 
exactly  heathen.  Some  of  my  neighbors 
(none  too  many  of  them,  I  confess)  are 


NEW  ENGLAND    WINTER.  141 

charitable  and  devout.  They  must  be 
pleasing  to  their  Creator,  I  say  to  myself, 
unless  He  is  hard  to  please.  Sometimes  I 
go  so  far  as  to  think  that  possibly  a  man 
may  be  religious  without  knowing  even  his 
own  religion.  Let  us  hope  so.  Otherwise, 
we  of  the  laity  are  assuredly  undone. 

And  what  is  true  of  creeds  and  churches 
is  true  likewise  of  countries  and  climates. 
We  grow  wise  by  comparison  of  one  thing 
with  another,  not  by  direct  and  exclusive 
contemplation  of  one  thing  by  itself.  Hu- 
man knowledge  is  relative,  not  absolute,  and 
the  inveterate  stayer  at  home  is  but  a  poor 
judge  of  his  own  birthplace. 

All  this  I  have  in  lively  remembrance  as 
I  sit  down  to  record  some  impressions  of 
our  New  England  winter.  With  what  pro- 
priety do  I  discourse  upon  winter  in  Mas- 
sachusetts, having  never  passed  one  any- 
where else  ?  Had  I  spent  a  portion  of  my 
life  where  roses  bloom  the  year  round,  then, 
to  be  sure,  I  might  assume  to  say  something 
to  the  purpose  about  snow  and  ice. 

But  if  the  "  tillers  of  paper  "  wrote  only 
of  such  topics  as  they  possessed  full  and 
accurate  acquaintance  with,  how  would  the 


142  NEW  ENGLAND   WINTER. 

Scripture  be  fulfilled  ?  "  Of  making  many 
books  "  there  surely  would  be  an  end, 
and  that  speedily.  I  venture  to  think, 
moreover,  that  a  man  may  never  have  set 
foot  beyond  the  boundaries  of  his  native 
city,  and  yet  prove  a  reasonably  competent 
guide  to  its  streets  and  by-ways.  His  in- 
formation is  circumscribed,  but  such  as  it 
is,  it  is  precise  and  to  the  point.  Though 
he  assure  you  soberly  that  the  principal 
thoroughfare  of  his  tenth-rate  town  is  more 
magnificent  than  any  in  New  York  or  Lon- 
don, you  may  none  the  less  depend  upon 
him  to  pilot  you  safely  out  of  its  most  in- 
tricate and  bewildering  corner.  Indeed,  he 
might  fairly  claim  members! iip  in  what  is, 
at  present,  one  of  the  most  flourishing  of 
intellectual  guilds :  I  mean  the  sect  of  the 
specialists;  whose  creed  is  that  one  may 
know  something  without  knowing  every- 
thing, and  who  choose  for  their  motto :  Re- 
main ignorant  in  order  that  you  may  learn. 
In  this  half  -  developed  world  there  is 
nothing  so  perfect  as  to  be  past  a  liability 
to  drawbacks  and  exceptions.  The  best  of 
beef  is  poisonous  to  some  eaters,  and  straw- 
berries are  an  abomination  to  others ;  and 


NEW  ENGLAND   WINTER.  143 

in  like  manner  there  is  no  climate,  nor 
any  single  feature  of  any  climate,  but  by 
some  constitutions  it  will  be  found  unen- 
durable. The  earth  is  to  be  populated 
throughout,  so  it  would  appear ;  and  to  that 
end  sundry  necessary  precautions  have  been 
taken  against  human  inertia.  A  certain 
proportion  of  boys  must  be  born  with  a 
propensity  for  wandering  and  adventure  ; 
and  the  most  favored  spot  must  not  contain 
within  itself  all  conceivable  advantages.  If 
everybody  could  stand  the  rigors  of  New 
England  weather,  what  would  become  of 
the  rest  of  the  continent  ? 

Unless  I  misjudge  myself,  I  should  soon 
tire  of  perpetual  summer.  Like  the  ungrate- 
ful Israelites  with  the  manna,  my  soul  would 
loathe  such  light  bread.  To  my  provincial 
mind,  as  I  believe,  nothing  else  could  ever 
quite  take  the  place  of  a  rotation  of  the  sea- 
sons. There  should  be  rain  and  shine,  cold 
and  heat.  A  change  from  good  weather  to 
bad,  and  back  again,  is  on  the  whole  better 
than  unbroken  good  weather.  Dullness  to 
set  off  brightness,  night  to  give  relief  to 
the  day,  such  is  the  wise  order  of  nature ; 
and  I  do  not  account  it  altogether  a  token 


144  NEW  ENGLAND    WINTER. 

of  depravity  that  honest  people,  who  love> 
a  paradox  without  knowing  it,  find  perfec- 
tion, of  no  matter  how  innocent  a  sort,  just 
a  little  wearisome.  Therefore,  I  say,  let 
me  have  a  year  made  up  of  well-defined 
contrasts ;  in  short,  a  New  England  year, 
of  four  clearly  marked  seasons. 

It  is  often  alleged,  I  know,  that  we  really 
have  only  three  seasons  ;  that  winter  leaps 
into  the  lap  of  summer,  and  spring  is  noth- 
ing but  a  myth  of  the  almanac  makers.  I 
shall  credit  this  story  when  I  am  convinced 
of  the  truth  of  another  statement,  equally 
current  and  equally  well  vouched,  that 
every  successive  summer  is  the  hottest  (or 
the  coldest)  for  the  last  twenty-five  years. 
As  there  is  no  subject  so  much  talked  about 
as  the  weather,  so,  almost  of  course,  there 
is  none  so  much  lied  about.  Winter  claims 
most  of  March,  as  the  astronomers  give  it 
leave  to  do,  I  believe  ;  but  April  and  May, 
despite  a  snow-storm  or  two  in  the  former, 
and  a  torrid  week  in  the  latter,  are  neither 
summer  nor  winter,  but  spring ;  somewhat 
fickle,  it  is  true,  more  or  less  uncertain  of  it- 
self,  but  still  retaining  its  personal  identity. 

As  for  our  actual  winter,  it  may  enhance 


NEW  ENGLAND   WINTER.  145 

its  value  in  our  eyes  if  we  take  into  account 
that  the  three  other  seasons  all  depend  upon 
it  for  their  peculiar  charms.  In  the  case  of 
spring  this  dependence  is  palpable  to  every 
one.  Berate  as  we  may  its  backwardness 
and  deceit,  muffle  ourselves  never  so  pet- 
tishly against  its  harsh  breath,  yea,  even 
deny  it  all  claim  to  its  own  proper  title,  yet 
anon  it  gets  the  better  of  our  discontent, 
and  we  thank  our  stars  that  we  have  lived 
to  see  again  the  greening  of  the  grass,  and 
to  hear  once  more  the  song  of  a  bird.  A 
mild  day  in  March  is  like  a  foretaste  of 
heaven ;  the  first  robin  seems  an  angel ; 
while  saxifrage,  anemones,  and  dandelions 
win  kindly  notice  from  many  a  matter-of- 
fact  countryman  who  lets  all  the  June  roses 
go  by  him  unregarded.  It  is  pleasures  of 
this  kind,  natural,  wholesome,  and  univer- 
sal, that  largely  make  up  the  total  of  hu- 
man happiness.  Our  instinct  for  them  only 
strengthens  with  age.  They  are  like  the 
"  divine  ideas  "  of  Olympian  bards,  — 

"Which  always  find  us  young, 
.  And  always  keep  us  so." 

All  this  glory  of  the  revival  would  be 
•wanting  but  for  the   previous   months  of 


146  NEW  ENGLAND   WINTER. 

desolation.  The  hepatica  is  not  more  beau- 
tiful than  many  another  flower,  but  it  takes 
us  when  we  are  hungry  for  the  sight  of  a 
blossom.  What  can  we  do  ?  When  it 
peeps  out  of  its  bed  of  withered  leaves,  puts 
off  its  furs,  and  opens  to  the  sunlight  its 
little  purple  cup,  we  have  no  choice  but  to 
love  it  as  we  cannot  love  the  handsomer 
and  more  fragrant  hosts  that  follow  in  its 
train. 

And  as  winter  over  and  gone  sets  in 
brighter  relief  the  warmth  and  resurrection 
of  springtime,  so  does  the  shadow  of  its 
approach  lend  a  real  if  somewhat  indefin- 
able attractiveness  to  the  fall  months.  The 
blooming  of  the  late  flowers,  the  ripening 
of  leaf  and  fruit,  the  frosty  air,  the  flocking 
of  birds,  all  the  thousand  signs  of  the  au- 
tumnal season  take  on  a  kind  of  pathetic 
and  solemn  interest,  as  being  but  prelusive 
to  the  whiteness  and  deadness  so  soon  to 
cover  the  earth.  Indeed,  if  there  were  no 
winter,  there  could  be  neither  spring  nor 
autumn  ;  nay,  nor  any  summer.  Leave  out 
the  snow  and  ice,  and  the  whole  round  year 
would  be  metamorphosed;  or,  rather,  the 
year  itself  would  pass  away,  and  nothing  be 
left  but  time. 


NEW  ENGLAND    WINTER.  147 

I  am  not  yet  a  convert  to  the  pessimistic 
doctrine  that  "  all  pleasure  is  merely  relief 
from  pain ; "  but  I  gladly  believe  that  pain 
has  its  use  in  heightening  subsequent  hap- 
piness, and  that  one  man's  evil  qualities 
(mine,  for  example)  may  partly  atone  for 
themselves  by  setting  off  the  amiable  char- 
acteristics of  worthier  men  around  him.  It 
consoles  me  to  feel  that  my  neighbors  seem 
better  to  themselves  and  to  each  other  be- 
cause of  the  abrupt  antithesis  between 
their  dispositions  and  mine.  It  is  better 
than  nothing,  if  my  failure  can  serve  as 
a  background  for  their  virtuous  success. 
With  reverent  thankfulness  do  I  acknow- 
ledge the  gracious  and  far-reaching  frugal- 
ity which,  by  one  means  and  another,  saves 
even  my  foolishness  and  imperfection  from 
running  altogether  to  waste. 

Viewed  in  this  light,  as  an  offset  or  foil 
for  the  remainder  of  the  year,  we  may  say 
that  the  worse  the  winter  is,  the  better  it  is. 
Within  reasonable  limits,  it  can  hardly  be 
too  long  or  too  rigorous.  And  just  here,  as 
it  appears  to  me,  our  New  England  climate 
shows  most  admirably.  Without  being  un- 
endurably  hot  or  insufferably  cold,  it  does 


148  NEW  ENGLAND    WINTER. 

offer  us  an  abundant  contrast.  An  opposi- 
tion of  one  hundred  and  twenty-five  degrees 
between  January  and  July  ought  to  be 
enough,  one  would  say,  to  impress  even  the 
dullest  imagination. 

But  winter  has  its  positively  favorable 
side,  and  is  not  to  be  passed  off  with  merely 
negative  compliments  ;  as  if  it  were  like  a 
toothache  or  a  tiresome  sermon,  —  some- 
thing of  which  the  only  good  word  to  be 
said  is,  that  it  cannot  last  forever.  It  is 
not  to  be  charged  as  a  defect  upon  cold 
weather  that  some  people  find  it  to  disagree 
with  them.  We  might  as  well  chide  the 
hill  for  putting  a  sick  man  out  of  breath. 
It  is  with  persons  as  with  plants :  some  are 
hardy,  others  not.  The  date-palm  cannot 
be  made  to  grow  in  Massachusetts ;  but  is 
Massachusetts  to  blame  for  the  palm-tree's 
incapacity  ?  All  things  of  which  the  spe- 
cific office  is  to  promote  strength  (exercise, 
food,  climate)  presuppose  a  degree  of 
strength  sufficient  for  their  use.  So  it  is 
with  cold  weather.  Its  proper  effect  is  to 
brace  and  invigorate  the  system  ;  but  there 
must  be  vigor  to  start  with.  The  law 
is  universal :  "  To  him  that  hath  shall  be 
given." 


NEW  ENGLAND   WINTER.  149 

Enough,  then,  of  apologies  and  negative 
considerations.  There  was  never  a  good 
Yankee,  of  moderately  robust  health,  and 
under  fifty  years  of  age,  that  did  not  wel- 
come cold  weather  as  a  friend.  Ask  the 
school-boys,  especially  such  as  live  in  coun- 
try places,  whether  summer  or  winter  brings 
the  greater  pleasure.  Two  to  one  they  will 
vote  for  winter.  Or  look  back  over  your 
own  childhood,  and  see  whether  the  sports 
of  winter-time  do  not  seem,  in  the  retro- 
spect, to  have  been  the  very  crown  of  the 
year.  How  vivid  my  own  recollections  are  ! 
Other  seasons  had  their  own  distinctive 
felicities ;  the  year  was  full  of  delights ; 
but  we  watched  for  the  first  snow-fall  and 
the  first  ice  as  eagerly  as  I  now  see  elderly 
and  sickly  people  watching  for  the  first 
symptoms  of  summer.  As  well  as  I  can 
remember,  winter  was  never  too  long  nor 
too  cold,  whatever  may  have  been  true  of 
a  single  day  now  and  then,  when  the  old 
school-house,  with  its  one  small  stove,  and 
its  eight  or  ten  large  windows,  ought,  in  all 
reason,  to  have  been  condemned  as  unin- 
habitable. But  the  frolics  out-of-doors!  It 
makes  the  blood  tingle  even  now  to  think 


150  NEW  ENGLAND    WINTER. 

of  them.  How  brief  the  days  were !  How 
cruel  the  authority  that  kept  us  in  the 
house  after  dark,  while  so  many  of  our 
mates  were  still  "  sliding  down  hill "  (we 
knew  nothing  of  "coasting"  where  I  was 
born),  or  skating  in  the  meadow !  Child- 
hood in  the  sunny  South  must  be  a  very 
tame  affair,  New  England  youngsters  being 
judges. 

Trifles  of  this  kind,  if  any  be  moved  to 
call  them  such,  are  not  to  be  sneered  out  of 
court.  Fifteen  years  form  no  small  part 
of  a  human  life,  and  whatever  helps  us  to 
grow  up  happy  contributes  in  no  slight  de- 
gree to  keep  us  happy  to  the  end.  "  When 
I  became  a  man  I  put  away  childish 
things "  ?  Yes,  it  may  be ;  but  the  very 
things  that  I  boast  of  outgrowing  have 
made  me  what  I  am.  In  truth,  when  it 
comes  to  such  a  question  as  this,  I  confess 
to  putting  more  faith  in  the  verdict  of 
healthy  children  than  in  the  unanimous 
theories  and  groans  of  whole  congresses  of 
valetudinarians.  I  am  not  yet  so  old  nor 
so  feeble  but  I  gaze  with  something  of  my 
youthful  enthusiasm  upon  the  first  snow. 
It  quickens  my  pulse  to  see  the  ponds 


NEW  ENGLAND   WINTER.  151 

frozen  over,  although  my  skates  long  since 
went  out  of  commission ;  and  I  still  find 
comfort  in  a  tramp  of  five  or  six  miles,  with 
the  path  none  too  good,  and  the  mercury 
half-way  between  the  freezing  point  and 
zero.  I  like  the  buffeting  of  the  north 
wind,  and  am  not  indisposed  once  in  a  while 
to  wrestle  with  the  frost  for  the  possession 
of  my  own  ears.  Well  as  I  love  to  loiter, 
I  rejoice  also  in  weather  which  makes  loi- 
tering impossible ;  which  puts  new  springs 
into  a  man's  legs,  and  sets  him  spinning 
over  the  course  whether  he  will  or  no.  It 
will  be  otherwise  with  me  by  and  by,  I  sup- 
pose, seeing  how  my  venerable  fellow-citi- 
zens are  affected,  but  for  the  present  nothing 
renews  my  physical  youth  more  surely  than 
a  low  temperature ;  a  fact  which  I  welcome 
as  evidence  that  I  am  not  yet  going  down- 
hill, however  closely  I  may  be  nearing  the 
summit. 

Winter  does  us  the  honor  to  assume  that 
we  are  not  weaklings.  Summer  may  coddle 
and  flatter,  but  cold  weather  is  no  senti- 
mentalist. Its  kindest  and  tenderest  mood 
has  something  of  a  stoical  severity  about  it. 
It  lays  its  finger  without  mercy  on  our  most 


152  NEW  ENGLAND    WINTER. 

vulnerable  and  sensitive  spots.  But  withal, 
as  I  have  said,  if  we  really  possess  any 
reserved  strength,  it  knows  how  to  bring 
it  out  and  make  the  most  of  it.  What  a 
fullness  of  vitality  do  we  suddenly  develop 
as  we  come  into  close  quarters  with  this 
well-intentioned  but  rough  and  ready  an- 
tagonist !  In  fine,  winter  is  one  of  those 
rare  and  invaluable  friends  of  whom  Emer- 
son speaks,  who  enable  us  to  do  what  we 
can.  To  its  good  offices  it  is  largely  at- 
tributable, no  doubt,  that  in  the  long  run 
the  inhabitants  of  temperate  regions  have 
always  been  too  powerful  for  their  rivals 
within  the  tropics.  Frigidity  is  like  pov- 
erty, a  blessing  to  those  who  can  bear  it. 

Winter  in  New  England  is  not  a  time  for 
gathering  flowers  out-of-doors,  though,  tak- 
ing the  years  together,  there  is  no  month  of 
the  twelve  wherein  one  may  not  pick  a  few 
blossoms  even  in  Massachusetts  ;  but  if  it 
effaces  one  set  of  pictures,  it  paints  for  us 
another ;  and  a  wise  and  liberal  taste  will 
reckon  itself  a  debtor  to  both.  To  say 
nothing  of  the  half-dozen  mornings  on 
which  every  tree  and  bush  is  arrayed  in 
all  the  splendor  of  diamonds,  or  the  other 


NEW  ENGLAND   WINTER.  153 

half-dozen  when  they  bow  themselves  un- 
der masses  of  new-fallen  snow,  —  making 
no  account  of  such  exceptional  pageants, 
which,  indeed,  are  often  so  destructive  as 
to  lose  much  of  their  glory  in  the  eyes  of 
provident  spectators,  —  I,  for  my  own  part, 
find  a  beauty  in  the  very  commonest  of 
winter  landscapes.  Let  the  ground  be  al- 
together white,  or  altogether  brown,  or  let 
it  be  covered  so  thinly  that  the  grass-blades 
show  dark  above  the  snow ;  in  any  case, 
white  or  brown,  or  white  and  brown,  to 
me  it  is  all  beautiful ;  beautiful  in  itself, 
and  also  by  contrast  with  the  greenness 
before  and  after ;  while,  as  for  the  trees,  I 
like  them  so  well  in  their  state  of  undress 
that  I  question  sometimes  whether  their 
leafy  garments  do  not  conceal  more  love- 
liness than  they  confer.  We  are  grateful, 
of  course,  to  pines  and  spruces ;  but  what 
if  all  trees  were  evergreen  ?  A  questionable 
improvement,  surely.  No ;  suggestive  and 
solemn  as  the  falling  of  the  leaves  must  ever 
be  to  us  who  read  our  own  destiny  in  the 
annual  parable,  it  would  be  sadder  still  if 
there  were  no  such  alternation,  no  diversity, 
but  only  one  monotonous  year  on  year  of 
changeless  verdure. 


154  NEW  ENGLAND    WINTER. 

Winter  beauty,  such  as  I  have  been  hint- 
ing at,  is  not  far  to  seek,  whether  by  towns- 
man or  rustic.  Bostonians  have  only  to 
cross  the  Mill-Dam,  —  a  rather  too  fashion- 
able promenade,  it  is  true,  but  even  here 
one  may  be  tolerably  certain  of  elbow-room 
on  a  January  morning.  Often  have  I  taken 
this  road  to  health  and  happiness,  waxing 
enthusiastic  as  I  have  proceeded,  admiring 
the  snow-bound  scene  with  a  fervor  which 
the  most  opulent  of  summer  landscapes  sel- 
dom excites ;  and,  pushing  on  with  increas- 
ing exhilaration,  have  brought  up  at  last  on 
Corey  Hill,  where  the  inquisitive  north-wind 
has  very  likely  abbreviated  my  stay,  but 
has  never  yet  spoiled  my  rapture  at  the 
wonderful  white  world  underneath. 

Economy  has  its  pleasures,  it  is  said,  for 
all  healthily  constituted  minds.  We  like, 
all  of  us,  to  make  much  out  of  little ;  to  do 
a  notable  piece  of  work  with  ordinary  tools  ; 
to  treat  a  meagre  and  commonplace  theme 
in  such  a  manner  that  whoever  begins  to 
read  has  no  alternative  but  to  finish ;  to 
tempt  an  epicure  with  the  daintiest  of  re- 
pasts out  of  the  simplest  and  fewest  of 
every  -  day  materials ;  to  paint  a  picture 


NEW  ENGLAND    WINTER.  155 

which  has  nothing  in  it,  but  compels  the 
eye ;  in  a  word,  to  demonstrate  to  others, 
and  not  less  to  ourselves,  that  the  secret 
of  success  lies  in  the  man  and  not  in  the 
stuff.  It  is  good,  once  in  a  while,  to  take 
advantage  of  a  disadvantage  to  show  what 
we  can  do. 

On  the  same  principle  we  are  glad  to 
find  ourselves,  if  only  not  too  often,  in  un- 
propitious  circumstances.  Otherwise  how 
should  we  ever  make  proof  of  our  philoso- 
phy ?  It  heightens  my  confidence  in  the 
goodness  nt  the  heart  of  things  to  see  how, 
as  if  by  instinct,  men  of  sound  natures  in- 
evitably right  the  scale  in  seasons  of  loss 
and  scarcity.  If  half  the  fortune  disap- 
pears, the  other  half  straightway  doubles 
in  value.  Faith  easily  puts  aside  calcula- 
tion, and  proves,  off-hand,  that  a  part  is 
equal  to  the  whole. 

Thus  it  is  with  me  as  a  lover  of  out-door 
life,  and  especially  as  a  field  student  of 
ornithology.  At  no  time  of  the  year  does 
the  fellowship  of  the  birds  afford  me  keener 
enjoyment  than  in  the  dead  of  winter.  In 
June  one  may  see  them  everywhere,  and 
hear  them  at  all  hours;  a  few  more  or  a 


156  NEW  ENGLAND    WINTER. 

few  less  are  nothing  to  make  account  of; 
but  in  Janu'ary  the  sight  of  a  single  brown 
creeper  is  sufficient  to  brighten  the  day, 
and  the  twittering  of  half  a  dozen  gold- 
finches is  like  the  music  of  angels. 

As  a  certain  outspoken  philosopher  would 
not  visit  some  of  his  relatives  because  he 
disliked  to  be  alone,  so  do  I  in  my  jaunts 
avoid  the  highway  whenever  it  is  possible, 
even  in  midwinter.  What  so  lonesome  as 
the  presence  of  people  with  whom  we  must 
not  speak,  or,  worse  yet,  with  whom  we 
must  speak,  but  only  about  the  weather 
and  like  exciting  topics !  As  I  have  inti- 
mated, however,  it  is  usually  the  public 
street  or  nothing  with  me  during  the  cold 
season.  All  the  more  grateful  am  I,  there- 
fore, to  those  familiar  winter  birds,  some  of 
whom  are  sure  to  bid  me  good  morning  out 
of  the  hedges  and  shade-trees  as  I  go  past. 
Not  unlikely  a  shrike  sits  motionless  and 
dumb  upon  a  telegraph  wire,  or  in  contrary 
mood  whistles  and  chirrups  industriously 
from  some  tree-top.  He  is  no  angel,  that  is 
plain  enough  ;  but  none  the  less  I  am  glad 
to  meet  him.  If  he  fails  of  being  lovable, 
he  is  at  least  a  study.  It  is  wonderful  how 


NEW  ENGLAND   WINTER.  157 

abruptly  his  whim  changes ;  how  discon- 
nected his  behavior  seems ;  how  quickly  and 
unexpectedly  he  can  pass  from  the  most  per- 
fect quiescence  into  a  fit  of  most  intense  ac- 
tivity. I  came  upon  such  a  fellow  the  other 
day  in  crossing  the  Common,  who,  just  as  I 
espied  him,  swooped  upon  a  bunch  of  spar- 
rows in  an  elm.  He  missed  his  aim,  and  in 
half  a  minute  made  a  second  attempt  upon 
a  similar  group  in  another  tree.  This  time 
he  singled  out  one  of  the  flock,  and  took 
chase  after  it ;  but  the  terrified  creature 
ducked  and  turned,  and  finally  got  away, 
whereupon  the  shrike  betook  himself  to 
a  perch,  and  fell  to  making  all  manner  of 
noises,  —  squeaks,  whistles,  twitters,  and 
what  not, — hopping  about  nervously  mean- 
while. The  passers-by  all  stopped  to  look 
at  the  show  (perhaps  because  they  saw 
me  staring  upward),  till  finally  a  laborer 
yielded  to  the  school-boy  instinct  and  let 
fly  a  stone.  The  scamp  was  not  greatly 
frightened  by  this  demonstration,  and 
merely  flew  to  the  tip  of  one  of  the  tall 
cotton  -  woods,  where  he  immediately  re- 
sumed his  vocal  practice. 

It  ought  to  be  helpful  to  a  man's  inde- 


158  NEW  ENGLAND    WINTER. 

pendence  of  spirit  to  fall  in  once  in  a  while 
with  such  a  self-reliant  and  nonchalant 
brother.  For  one,  I  wish  I  were  better  able 
to  profit  by  his  example.  He  seems  made 
for  hard  times  and  short  rations.  Doubt- 
less it  is  a  delusion  of  the  fancy,  but  he  and 
winter  are  so  connected  in  my  thought  that 
I  can  hardly  conceive  of  him  as  knowing 
what  summer  means,  or  as  caring  to  know. 
To  a  person  of  my  tastes  it  is  one  of  win- 
ter's capital  recommendations  that  it  brings 
its  own  birds  with  it,  thus  affording  sundry 
ornithological  pleasures  which  otherwise 
one  would  be  compelled  to  go  without. 
The  tree-sparrows,  for  instance,  are  very 
good  cold-weather  acquaintances  of  mine. 
There  is  nothing  peculiarly  taking  about 
their  dress  or  demeanor ;  but  they  are 
steady-going,  good-humored,  diligent  peo- 
ple, whose  presence  you  may  always  depend 
upon.  I  lately  witnessed  a  very  pretty 
trick  of  theirs.  It  was  in  the  marsh  just 
over  the  fence  from  Beacon  Street,  where 
a  company  of  the  birds,  a  dozen  perhaps, 
were  breakfasting  off  the  seeds  of  evening 
primrose.  Less  skillful  acrobats  than  their 
neighbors  and  frequent  traveling  com  pan- 


NEW  ENGLAND   WINTER.  159 

ions,  the  red-poll  linnets,  it  is  not  easy  for 
them  to  feed  while  hanging  upon  the  pods. 
So,  taking  the  weeds  one  by  one,  they 
alighted  at  the  very  tip,  and  then  with 
various  twitchings  and  stampings  shook  the 
stalk  as  violently  as  possible,  after  which 
they  dropped  quickly  upon  the  snow  to 
gather  up  the  results  of  their  labors.  As  I 
say,  it  was  an  extremely  pretty  perform- 
ance, and  by  itself  would  have  rewarded  me 
for  my  morning  tramp,  putting  me  in  mind, 
as  it  did,  of  happy  hours  long  since  past, 
when  I  climbed  into  the  tops  of  nut-trees  on 
business  of  the  same  sort.  One  of  the  prin- 
cipal uses  of  friendship,  human  or  other,  is 
this  of  keeping  the  heart  young. 

I  hope  I  am  not  lacking  in  a  wholesome 
disrespect  for  sentimentality  and  affecta- 
tion ;  for  artificial  ecstasies  over  sunsets  and 
landscapes,  birds  and  flowers ;  the  fashion- 
able cant  of  nature- worship,  which  is  enough 
almost  to  seal  a  true  worshiper's  lips  under 
a  vow  of  everlasting  silence.  But  such  re- 
pugnances belong  to  the  library  and  the 
parlor,  and  are  left  behind  when  a  man  goes 
abroad,  either  by  himself  or  in  any  other 
really  good  company.  For  my  own  part 


160  NEW  ENGLAND    WINTER. 

the  first  lisp  of  a  chickadee  out  of  a  way- 
side thicket  disperses  with  a  breath  all 
such  unhappy  and  unhallowed  recollections. 
Here  is  a  voice  sincere,  and  the  response  is 
instantaneous  and  irresistible. 

It  would  be  a  breach  of  good  manners,  an 
inexcusable  ingratitude,  to  write  never  so 
briefly  of  the  New  England  winter  without 
noting  this,  the  most  engaging  and  charac- 
teristic enlivener  of  our  winter  woods  ;  who 
revels  in  snow  and  ice,  and  is  never  lacking 
in  abundant  measures  of  faith  and  cheerful- 
ness, enough  not  only  for  himself,  but  for 
any  chance  wayfarer  of  our  own  kind.  He 
is  every  whit  as  independent  as  the  shrike, 
but  in  how  opposite  a  manner !  —  with  a 
self-reliance  that  is  never  self-sufficiency, 
and  bravery  that  offers  no  suspicion  of  bra- 
vado. Happy  in  himself,  he  is  at  the  same 
time  of  a  most  companionable  spirit.  Per- 
fect little  philosopher!  What  a  paradise 
New  England  would  be  if  all  her  inhabi- 
tants were  like  him  ! 

In  such  a  winter  climate  as  ours  it  is  em- 
phatically true  that  we  "  know  not  what 
shall  be  on  the  morrow/ '  The  season  is 
not  straitened  in  its  resources,  and  caters 


NEW  ENGLAND   WINTER.  161 

to  all  tastes  in  a  way  which  some  may  look 
upon  as  fickleness,  but  which  I  prefer  to  re- 
gard as  catholicity.  Its  days  are  of  many 
types,  and  it  spreads  them  out  before  us 
like  a  patient  shopkeeper,  —  as  if  it  recog- 
nized in  the  Yankee  a  customer  hard  to  suit. 
I  do  not  mean  to  affirm  that  the  weather 
and  I  are  never  at  odds ;  but  all  in  all,  in 
the  long  run  and  theoretically,  I  approve 
its  methods.  What  a  humdrum  round  life 
would  be  if  nothing  ever  happened  but  the 
expected !  I  wonder  if  there  are  beings 
anywhere  who  have  forgotten  how  it  feels 
to  be  surprised.  The  children  of  this  world, 
at  all  events,  were  not  intended  for  any 
such  condition  of  fixity.  When  there  is  no 
longer  anything  new  under  the  sun,  it  will 
be  time  to  get  above  it. 

Even  in  so  simple  and  regular  a  proceed- 
ing as  a  morning  walk,  one  wishes  always 
to  see  something  new,  or  failing  of  that, 
something  old  in  a  new  light ;  an  easy 
enough  task,  if  one  has  eyes.  For  as  we 
cannot  diink  twice  of  the  same  river,  so  we 
cannot  twice  take  the  same  ramble.  I  went 
over  the  same  course  yesterday  and  to-day ; 
but  yesterday's  landscape  and  sky  were  dif- 


162  NE  W  ENGLAND   WINTER. 

ferent  from  to-day's.  I  saw  different  birds, 
and  had  different  thoughts  ;  and  after  all, 
the  principal  part  of  a  walk  is  what  goes 
on  in  the  mind.  Still,  the  activities  of  the 
intellect  are  greatly  under  the  influence  of 
external  surroundings,  a  fact  which  makes 
largely  in  favor  of  a  varied  year  like  that 
we  have  been  praising.  The  experience  of 
it  tends  to  widen  and  diversify  the  thinking 
of  men.  In  a  smaller  degree  it  answers  the 
same  end  as  travel.  For  aught  I  know,  it 
may  possibly  have  its  little  share  in  the 
onerous  task  of  liberalizing  systems  of  the- 
ology. Who  shall  say  that  our  New  Eng- 
land climate,  with  its  frequent  and  extreme 
contrasts,  —  what  I  have  called  its  habit  of 
catholicity,  —  may  not  have  had  more  or  less 
to  do  with  that  diffusion  of  free  thought 
which  has  made  the  home  of  the  Pilgrims 
the  birthplace  of  heresies  without  number  ? 
The  suggestion  is  fanciful,  perhaps.  Let  it 
pass.  Such  profundities  do  not  come  within 
my  province.  Only  I  must  believe  that, 
even  in  the  matter  of  weather,  it  is  good 
for  us  to  be  educated  out  of  bigotry  into 
a  large-minded  toleration.  Hence  it  is,  in 
part,  that  I  give  my  suffrage  for  our  Massa- 


NEW  ENGLAND    WINTER.  163 

chnsetts  winter,  which  not  only  widens  the 
scope  of  the  year,  but  contains  within  itself 
a  variety  wellnigh  endless. 

I  have  kept  my  subject  out-of-doors.  It 
is  well  always  to  have  at  least  one  point  of 
originality.  Let  it  be  mine,  in  the  present 
instance,  that  I  have  said  nothing  about  the 
pleasures  of  the  fireside,  about  long  even- 
ings and  drawn  curtains.  If  I  were  in  win- 
ter's place,  I  should  not  greatly  care  to  hear 
people  tell  how  comfortable  they  could  make 
themselves  by  jealously  shutting  me  out. 
Their  speech  might  be  eloquent,  and  their 
language  eulogistic  ;  but  somehow  I  should 
not  feel  that  they  were  praising  me* 


A  MOUNTAIN-SIDE  RAMBLE. 

I  will  go  lose  myself.  —  SHAKESPEARE. 

THEKB  are  two  sayings  of  Scripture 
which  to  my  mind  seem  peculiarly  appro- 
priate for  pleasant  Sundays,  — "Behold  the 
fowls  of  the  air,"  and  "  Consider  the  lilies." 
The  first  is  a  morning  text,  as  anybody  may 
see,  while  the  second  is  more  conveniently 
practiced  upon  later  in  the  day,  when  the 
dew  is  off  the  grass.  With  certain  of  the 
more  esoteric  doctrines  of  the  Bible  (the 
duty  of  turning  the  other  cheek,  for  exam- 
ple, or  of  selling  all  that  one  has  and  giving 
to  the  poor)  we  may  sometimes  be  troubled 
what  to  do,  —  unless,  like  the  world  in  gen- 
eral, we  turn  them  over  to  Count  Tolstoi 
tmd  his  followers ;  but  such  precepts  as  I 
have  quoted  nobody  is  likely  ever  to  quar- 
rel with,  least  of  all  any  "  natural  man." 
For  myself,  I  find  them  always  a  comfort, 
no  matter  what  my  mood  or  condition, 
while  their  observance  becomes  doubly 
agreeable  when  I  am  away  from  home ;  the 


A  MOUNTAIN-SIDE  RAMBLE.  165 

thought  of  beholding  a  strange  species  of 
fowl,  or  of  considering  a  new  sort  of  lily, 
proving  even  more  attractive  than  the  pros- 
pect of  listening  to  a  new  minister,  or,  what 
is  somewhat  less  probable,  of  hearing  a  new 
sermon. 

Thus  it  was  with  me,  not  long  ago,  when 
I  found  myself  suddenly  left  alone  at  a 
small  hotel  in  the  Franconia  Valley.  The 
day  was  lowery,  as  days  in  the  mountains 
are  apt  to  be  ;  but  when  duty  goes  along 
with  inclination,  a  possible  sprinkling  is  no 
very  serious  hindrance.  Besides,  a  fort- 
night of  "  catching  weather  "  had  brought 
me  into  a  state  of  something  like  philosophi- 
cal indifference.  I  must  be  reckoned  either 
with  the  just  or  with  the  unjust, —  so  I  had 
come  to  reason,  —  and  of  course  must  ex- 
pect now  and  then  to  be  rained  on.  Ac- 
cordingly, after  dinner  I  tucked  my  faith- 
ful umbrella  under  my  arm,  and  started  up 
the  Notch  road. 

I  had  in  view  a  quiet,  meditative  ramble, 
in  harmony  with  the  spirit  of  the  day,  and 
could  think  of  nothing  more  to  the  purpose 
than  a  visit  to  a  pair  of  deserted  farms,  out 
in  the  woods  on  the  mountain-side.  The 


166  A  MOUNTAIN-SIDE  RAMBLE. 

lonesome  fields  and  the  crumbling  houses 
would  touch  my  imagination,  and  perhaps 
chasten  my  spirit.  Thither  would  I  go,  and 
"consider  the  lilies."  I  am  never  much  of 
a  literalist,  —  except  when  a  strict  construc- 
tion favors  the  argument,  —  and  in  the 
present  instance  it  did  not  strike  me  as  at 
all  essential  that  I  should  find  any  speci- 
mens of  the  genus  Lilium.  One  of  the 
humbler  representatives  of  the  great  and 
noble  family  of  the  Liliacece  —  the  pretty 
clintonia,  now  a  little  out  of  season,  or  even 
the  Indian  cucumber -root — would  come 
fairly  within  the  spirit  of  the  text ;  while, 
if  worst  came  to  worst,  there  would  cer- 
tainly be  no  scarcity  of  grass,  itself  nothing 
but  a  kind  of  degenerate  lily,  if  some  recent 
theories  may  be  trusted. 

I  followed  the  highway  for  a  mile  or  two, 
and  then  took  a  wood-road  (a  u  cart-path  "  I 
should  call  it,  if  I  dared  to  speak  in  my  own 
tongue  wherein  I  was  born)  running  into 
the  forest  on  the  left.  This  brought  me 
before  long  to  a  "  pair  of  bars,"  over  which 
I  clambered  into  a  grassy  field,  the  first  of 
the  two  ancient  clearings  I  had  come  out 
to  see.  The  scanty  acres  must  have  been 


A  MOUNTAIN-SIDE  RAMBLE.          167 

wrested  from  the  encompassing  forest  at  no 
small  cost  of  patience  and  hard  labor;  and 
after  all,  they  had  proved  not  to  pay  for 
their  tillage.  A  waste  of  energy,  as  things 
now  looked  ;  but  who  is  to  judge  of  such 
matters  ?  It  is  not  given  to  every  man  to 
see  the  work  of  his  hands  established.  A 
good  many  of  us,  I  suspect,  might  be  thank- 
ful to  know  that  anything  we  have  ever 
done  would  be  found  worthy  of  mention 
fifty  years  hence,  though  the  mention  were 
only  by  way  of  pointing  a  moral. 

The  old  barn  was  long  ago  blown  down, 
and  as  I  mounted  the  fence  a  woodchuck 
went  scampering  out  of  sight  among  the 
timbers.  The  place  was  not  entirely  un- 
inhabited, as  it  seemed,  in  spite  of  appear- 
ances: and  as  I  turned  toward  the  house, 
the  door  of  which  stood  uninvitingly  open, 
there  sat  a  second  woodchuck  in  the  door- 
way, facing  me,  intent  and  motionless,  full 
of  wonderment,  no  doubt,  at  the  unspeak- 
able impertinence  of  such  an  intrusion.  I 
was  glad  to  see  him,  at  any  rate,  and  made 
haste  to  tell  him  so  ;  greeting  him  in  the 
rather  unceremonious  language  wherewith 
tb(?  now  famous  titmouse  is  said  to  have 


168  A  MOUNTAIN-SIDE  RAMBLE. 

addressed  our  foremost  American  gentleman 
and  philosopher :  — 

"  Good  day,  good  sir ! 
Fine  afternoon,  old  passenger ! 
Happy  to  meet  you  in  these  places." 

But  the  churlish  fellow  had  no  notion  of 
doing  the  honors,  and  by  the  time  I  had 
advanced  two  or  three  paces  he  whisked 
about  and  vanished  inside  the  door.  "  Well 
done  !  "  I  thought.  "  Great  is  evolution. 
Woodchucks  used  to  be  cave-dwellers,  but 
they  are  getting  to  live  above  ground,  like 
the  rest  of  us.  So  does  history  repeat  it- 
self. Who  knows  how  soon  they  may  be 
putting  up  cottages  on  their  own  account?  " 
Perhaps  I  gave  the  creature  more  credit 
than  really  belonged  to  him.  I  followed 
him  into  the  house,  but  he  was  nowhere  to 
be  seen,  and  it  is  not  unlikely  that  he  lived 
in  a  cave,  after  all.  Nearly  half  the  floor- 
ing had  rotted  away,  and  there  was  nothing 
to  hinder  his  getting  into  the  cellar.  He 
may  have  taken  the  old  farmhouse  as  a  con- 
venient portico  for  his  burrow,  a  sort  of 
storm-porch,  as  it  were.  In  his  eyes  this 
may  be  the  final  end  and  aim,  the  teleolog- 
ical  purpose,  of  all  such  board-and-shingle 


A   MOUNTAIN-SIDE  RAMBLE.  169 

edifices.  Mr.  Ruskin  seems  to  hold  that 
a  house  falls  short  of  its  highest  useful- 
ness until  it  has  become  a  ruin ;  and  who 
knows  but  woodchucks  may  be  of  the  same 
opinion  ? 

This  particular  house  was  in  two  parts, 
one  of  them  considerably  more  ancient  than 
the  other.  This  older  portion  it  was,  of 
which  the  floor  had  so  badly  (or  so  well) 
fallen  into  decay ;  while  the  ceiling,  as  if  in 
a  spirit  of  emulation,  had  settled  till  it 
described  almost  a  semicircle  of  convexity. 
To  look  at  it,  one  felt  as  if  the  law  of  grav- 
ity were  actually  being  imposed  upon. 

It  must  have  marked  an  epoch  in  the  his- 
tory of  the  household,  this  doubling  of  its 
quarters.  Things  were  looking  well  with 
the  man.  His  crops  were  good,  his  family 
increasing ;  his  wife  had  begun  to  find  the 
house  uncomfortably  small ;  they  could  af- 
ford to  enlarge  it.  Hence  this  addition,  this 
"  new  part,"  as  no  doubt  they  were  in  the 
habit  of  calling  it,  with  pardonable  satisfac- 
tion. It  was  more  substantially  built  than 
the  original  dwelling,  and  possessed,  what  I 
dare  say  its  mistress  had  set  her  heart  upon, 
one  plastered  room.  The  "  new  part "  I 


170  A  MOUNTAIN-SIDE  RAMBLE. 

How  ironical  the  words  sounded,  as  I  re- 
peated them  to  myself !  If  things  would 
only  stay  new,  or  if  it  were  men's  houses 
only  that  grew  old  ! 

The  people  who  lived  here  had  little  oc- 
casion to  hang  their  walls  with  pictures. 
When  they  wanted  something  to  look  at, 
they  had  but  to  go  to  the  window  and  gaze 
upon  the  upper  slopes  of  Mount  Lafayette 
and  Mount  Cannon,  rising  in  beauty  be- 
yond the  intervening  forest.  But  every 
New  England  woman  must  have  a  bit  of 
flower  garden,  no  matter  what  her  sur- 
roundings ;  and  even  here  I  was  glad  to 
notice,  just  in  front  of  the  door,  a  clump  of 
cinnamon  rose-bushes,  all  uncared  for,  of 
course,  but  flourishing  as  in  a  kind  of  im- 
mortal youth  (this  old-fashioned  rose  must 
be  one  of  Time's  favorites),  and  just  now 
bright  with  blossoms.  For  sentiment's  sake 
I  plucked  one,  thinking  of  the  hands  that 
did  the  same  years  ago,  and  ere  this,  in  all 
likelihood,  were  under  the  sod ;  thinking, 
too,  of  other  hands,  long,  long  vanished, 
and  of  a  white  rose-bush  that  used  to  stand 
beside  another  door. 

On  both  sides  of  the  house  were  apple- 


A  MOUNTAIN-SIDE  RAMBLE.          171 

trees,  a  few  of  them  still  in  good  trim,  but 
the  greater  number  decrepit  after  years  of 
buffeting  by  mountain  storms.  A  phrebe 
sat  quietly  on  the  ridge-pole,  and  a  chipper 
was  singing  from  the  orchard.  What  knew 
they  of  time,  or  of  time's  mutations  ?  The 
house  might  grow  old,  —  the  house  and  the 
trees  ;  but  if  the  same  misfortune  ever  be- 
falls phoabes  and  sparrows,  we  are,  fortu- 
nately, none  the  wiser.  To  human  eyes 
they  are  always  young  and  fresh,  like  the 
buttercups  that  bespangled  the  grass  before 
me,  or  like  the  sun  that  shone  brightly  upon 
the  tranquil  scene. 

Turning  away  from  the  house  and  the 
grassy  field  about  it,  I  got  over  a  stone  wall 
into  a  pasture  fast  growing  up  to  wood: 
spruces,  white  pines,  red  pines,  paper 
birches,  and  larches,  with  a  profusion  of 
meadow-sweet  sprinkled  everywhere  among 
them.  A  nervous  flicker  started  at  my  ap- 
proach, stopped  for  an  instant  to  reconnoi- 
tre, and  then  made  off  in  haste.  A  hermit 
thrush  was  singing,  and  the  bird  that  is 
called  the  "  preacher  "  —  who  takes  no  sum- 
mer vacation,  but  holds  forth  in  "  God's  first 
temple  "  for  the  seven  days  of  every  week 


172  A  MOUNTAIN-SIDE  RAMBLE. 

—  was  delivering  his  homily  with  all  ear- 
nestness. He  must  preach,  it  seemed, 
whether  men  would  hear  or  forbear.  He 
had  already  announced  his  text,  but  I  could 
not  certainly  make  out  what  it  was.  "  Here 
we  have  no  continuing  city,"  perhaps;  or 
it  might  have  been,  "  Vanity  of  vanities, 
saith  the  Preacher,  all  is  vanity."  It  should 
have  been  one  of  these,  or  so  I  thought ; 
but,  as  all  church-goers  must  have  observed, 
the  connection  between  text  and  sermon  is 
sometimes  more  or  less  recondite,  and  once 
in  a  while,  like  the  doctrine  of  the  sermon 
itself,  requires  to  be  taken  on  faith.  In  the 
present  instance,  indeed,  as  no  doubt  in 
many  others,  the  pew  was  quite  as  likely  to 
be  at  fault  as  the  pulpit.  The  red-eye's 
eloquence  was  never  very  persuasive  to  my 
ear.  Its  short  sentences,  its  tiresome  up- 
ward inflections,  its  everlasting  repetitious- 
ness,  and  its  sharp,  querulous  tone  long 
since  became  to  me  an  old  story ;  and  I  have 
always  thought  that  whoever  dubbed  this 
vireo  the  "preacher"  could  have  had  no 
very  exalted  opinion  of  the  clergy. 

I  stayed  not  to  listen,  therefore,  but  kept 
on  through  the  wood,  while  a  purple  finch 


A  MOUNTAIN-SIDE  RAMBLE.  173 

pitched  a  tune  on  one  side  of  the  path  (he 
appeared  to  feel  no  compunctions  about  in- 
terrupting the  red-eye's  exhortation),  and  a 
squirrel  sprung  his  rattle  on  the  other ;  and 
presently  I  came  to  the  second  farm:  a 
large  clearing,  bounded  by  the  forest  on  all 
hands,  but  after  these  many  years  still 
yielding  a  very  respectable  hay-crop  (so 
does  the  good  that  men  do  live  after  them), 
and  with  a  house  and  barn  still  standing  at 
the  lower  end.  I  reached  the  house  just  in 
time  to  escape  a  shower,  making  an  en- 
forced obeisance  as  I  entered.  It  was  but 
the  ghost  of  a  dwelling,  —  the  door  off  its 
hinges,  and  no  glass  in  the  four  small  win- 
dows ;  but  it  had  a  substantial  quality  about 
it,  notwithstanding,  as  a  not  very  tall  man 
was  liable  at  any  moment  to  be  reminded 
should  he  carry  himself  a  trifle  too  proudly 
under  the  big  unhewn  timbers.  It  is  better 
to  stoop  than  to  bump  your  head,  they 
seemed  to  be  saying.  Hither  came  no  tour- 
ists but  the  rabbits  ;  and  they,  it  was  plain, 
were  not  so  much  tourists  as  permanent 
residents.  As  I  looked  at  the  blank  walls 
and  door-posts,  after  a  fortnight's  expe- 
rience among  the  mountains,  I  felt  grateful 


174  A  MOUNTAIN-SIDE  RAMBLE. 

at  the  sight  of  boards  on  which  Brown  of 
Boston  and  Smith  of  Smithfield  had  not  yet 
inscribed  their  illustrious  names.  I  had  left 
the  city  in  search  of  rest  and  seclusion.  For 
the  time,  in  the  presence  of  Nature  herself, 
I  would  gladly  have  forgotten  the  very  ex- 
istence of  my  all-too-famous  countrymen ; 
and  I  rejoiced  accordingly  to  have  found 
one  lonely  spot  to  which  their  restless  feet 
had  not  yet  penetrated.  Tall  grass  grew 
untrodden  quite  up  to  the  door-sill;  rasp- 
berry vines  thrust  their  arms  in  at  the  pane- 
less  windows ;  there  was  neither  paint  nor 
plastering ;  and  the  tiny  cupboard  was  so 
bare  that  it  set  my  irreverent  fancy  to  quot- 
ing Mother  Goose  in  the  midst  of  my  most 
serious  moralizings. 

The  owner  of  this  farm,  like  his  neigh- 
bor, had  planted  an  apple  orchard,  and  his 
wife  a  patch  of  cinnamon  roses ;  and,  not  to 
treat  one  better  than  another,  I  picked  a 
rose  here  also.  There  is  no  lover  of  flow- 
ers but  likes  to  have  his  garden  noticed, 
and  the  good  housewife  would  have  been 
pleased,  I  knew,  could  she  have  seen  me 
looking  carefully  for  her  handsomest  and 
sweetest  bud. 


A  MOUNTAIN-SIDE  RAMBLE.          175 

By  this  time  the  shower  was  over,  and  a 
song-sparrow  was  giving  thanks.  I  might 
never  have  another  opportunity  to  follow 
up  an  old  forest  path,  of  which  I  had  heard 
vague  reports  as  leading  from  this  point  to 
the  railway.  "It  starts  from  the  upper 
corner  of  the  farm,"  my  informant  had  said. 
To  the  upper  corner  I  went,  therefore, 
through  the  rank,  wet  grass.  But  I  found 
no  sign  of  what  I  was  looking  for,  and  with 
some  heartfelt  but  unreportable  soliloquiz- 
ings,  to  the  effect  that  a  countryman's  direc- 
tions, like  dreams,  are  always  to  be  read 
backwards,  I  started  straight  down  toward 
the  lower  corner,  saying  to  myself  that  I 
ought  to  have  had  the  wit  to  take  that 
course  in  the  beginning.  Sure  enough,  the 
path  was  there,  badly  overgrown  with 
bushes  and  young  trees,  but  still  traceable. 
A  few  rods,  and  I  came  to  the  brook.  The 
bridge  was  mostly  gone,  as  I  had  been  fore- 
warned it  probably  would  be,  but  a  single 
big  log  answered  a  foot  passenger's  require- 
ments. Once  across  the  bridge,  however,  I 
could  discover  no  sign  of  a  trail.  But  what 
of  that  ?  The  sun  was  shining ;  I  had  only 
to  keep  it  at  my  back,  and  I  was  sure  to 


176  A  MOUNTAIN-SIDE.  RAMBLE. 

bring  up  at  the  railroad.  So  I  set  out,  and 
for  a  while  traveled  on  bravely.  Then  I 
began  to  bethink  myself  that  I  was  not  go- 
ing up-hill  quite  so  fast  as  it  seemed  I  ought 
to  be  doing.  Was  I  really  approaching  the 
railway,  after  all  ?  Or  had  I  started  in  a 
wrong  direction  (being  in  the  woods  at  the 
time),  and  was  I  heading  along  the  moun- 
tain-side in  such  a  course  that  I  might  walk 
all  night,  and  all  the  while  be  only  plunging 
deeper  and  deeper  into  the  forest?  The 
suggestion  was  not  pleasurable.  If  I  could 
only  see  the  mountain  !  But  the  thick  foli- 
age put  that  out  of  the  question. 

After  a  short  debate  with  myself  I  con- 
cluded to  be  prudent,  and  make  my  way 
back  to  the  brook  while  I  still  had  the  sun 
to  guide  me  ;  for  I  now  called  to  mind  the 
showeriness  of  the  day,  and  the  strong  like- 
lihood that  the  sky  might  at  any  moment 
be  overcast.  Even  as  things  were,  there 
was  no  assurance  that  I  might  not  strike 
the  brook  at  some  distance  from  the  bridge, 
and  so  at  some  distance  from  the  trail,  with 
no  means  of  determining  whether  it  was 
above  or  below  me.  I  began  my  retreat, 
and  pretty  soon,  luckily  or  unluckily,  —  I 


A  MOUNTAIN-SIDE  RAMBLE.  177 

am  not  yet  certain  which,  —  in  some  un- 
accountable manner  my  feet  found  them- 
selves again  in  the  path. 

Now,  then,  I  would  carry  out  my  original 
intention,  and  I  turned  straight  about.  For 
a  while  the  path  held  clear.  Then  it  was 
blocked  by  a  big  tree  that  had  toppled  into 
it  lengthwise.  I  must  go  round  the  obstruc- 
tion, and  pick  up  the  trail  at  the  other  end. 
But  the  trail  would  not  be  picked  up.  It 
had  faded  out  or  run  into  the  ground. 
Finally,  when  I  was  just  on  the  point  of 
owning  myself  beaten,  my  eyes  all  at  once 
fell  upon  it,  running  along  before  me.  A 
second  experience  of  the  same  kind  set  me 
thinking  how  long  it  would  take  to  go  a 
mile  or  two  at  this  rate  (it  was  already  half 
past  four  o'clock),  even  if  I  did  not  in  the 
end  lose  my  way  altogether.  But  I  kept  on 
till  I  was  stopped,  not  by  a  single  windfall, 
but  by  a  tangle  of  half  a  dozen.  This  time 
I  hunted  for  a  continuation  of  the  path  on 
the  further  side  till  I  was  out  of  patience, 
and  then  determined  to  be  done  with  the 
foolish  business,  and  go  back  by  the  way  I 
had  come.  A  very  sensible  resolve,  but 
when  I  came  to  put  it  into  execution  it 


178  A  MOUNTAIN-SIDE  RAMBLE. 

turned  out  to  be  too  late.  The  path  was 
lost  entirely.  I  must  fall  back  upon  the 
sun ;  and  if  the  truth  is  to  be  told,  I 
commenced  feeling  slightly  uncomfortable. 
The  bushes  were  wet ;  my  clothing  was 
drenched  ;  I  had  neither  compass  nor 
matches;  it  certainly  would  be  anything 
but  agreeable  to  spend  the  night  in  the 
forest. 

Happily  there  was,  for  the  present,  no 
great  danger  of  matters  coming  to  such  a 
pass.  If  the  sun  would  only  shine  for  half 
an  hour  longer  I  could  reach  the  brook  (I 
could  probably  reach  it  without  the  sun), 
and  even  if  I  missed  the  bridge  I  could 
follow  the  stream  out  of  the  woods  before 
dark.  I  was  not  frightened,  but  I  was  be- 
ginning to  tremble  lest  I  should  be.  The 
loss  of  the  path  was  in  itself  little  to  worry 
about.  But  what  if  I  should  lose  my  wits 
also,  as  many  a  man  had  done  in  circum- 
stances no  worse,  and  with  consequences 
most  disastrous  ?  Unpleasant  stories  came 
into  my  head,  and  I  remember  repeating  to 
myself  more  than  once  (candor  is  better 
than  felicity  of  phrase),  "  Be  careful,  now ; 
don't  get  rattled  !  "  Then,  having  thus 


A  MOUNTAIN-SIDE  RAMBLE.          179 

pulled  myself  together,  as  an  Englishman 
would  say,  I  faced  the  sun  and  began  "  step- 
ping westward,"  though  with  no  thought  of 
Wordsworth's  poem.  A  spectator  might 
have  suspected  that  if  I  was  not  "  rattled," 
I  was  at  least  not  far  from  it.  "  Now  who 
is  this,"  he  might  have  queried, 

"  whose  sore  task 
Does  not  divide  the  Sunday  from  the  week  ?  " 

Meanwhile  I  was,  of  course,  on  the  look- 
out for  any  signs  of  the  missing  path,  and 
after  a  time  I  descried  in  the  distance,  on 
one  side,  what  looked  like  a  patch  of  bushes 
growing  in  the  midst  of  the  forest.  I  made 
for  it,  and,  as  I  expected,  found  myself  once 
more  on  the  trail.  This  time  I  held  it, 
reached  the  bridge,  crossed  it,  and,  still 
keeping  up  my  pace,  was  presently  out  in 
the  sunshine  of  the  old  farm,  startling  a 
brood  of  young  partridges  on  the  way. 
Happy  birds  !  They  were  never  afraid  of 
passing  a  night  in  the  woods.  A  most  ab- 
surd notion  !  But  man,  as  he  is  the  strong- 
est of  all  animals,  so  is  he  also  the  weakest 
and  most  defenseless. 

This  last  reflection  is  an  afterthought,  I 
freely  acknowledge.  At  the  moment  I  was 


180  A  MOUNTAIN-SIDE  RAMBLE. 

taken  up  with  the  peacefulness  of  the  pas- 
toral scene  into  which  I  had  so  happily 
emerged,  and  was  in  no  mood  to  envy  any- 
body. How  bright  and  cheerful  the  rag- 
worts and  buttercups  looked,  and  what 
sweet  and  homelike  music  the  robin  made, 
singing  from  one  of  the  apple-trees !  The 
cool  north  wind  wafted  the  spicy  odor  of 
the  cinnamon  roses  to  my  nostrils ;  but  — 
alas  for  the  prosaic  fact !  —  the  same  cool 
wind  struck  through  my  saturated  gar- 
ments, bidding  me  move  on.  The  pessi- 
mistic preacher  was  right  when  he  said, 
"  Truly  the  light  is  sweet,  and  a  pleasant 
thing  it  is  for  the  eyes  to  behold  the  sun." 
I  wonder  whether  he  was  ever  bewildered 
in  a  dark  wood.  From  boyhood  I  have 
loved  the  forest,  with  its  silence,  its  shad- 
ows, and  its  deep  isolation,  but  for  the  pres- 
ent I  had  had  my  fill  of  such  mercies. 

As  I  came  out  upon  the  highway,  it 
occurred  to  me  what  Emerson  says  of 
Thoreau,  —  that  "  he  could  not  bear  to 
hear  the  sound  of  his  own  steps,  and  there- 
fore never  willingly  walked  in  the  road." 
My  own  taste,  I  was  obliged  to  admit, 
was  somewhat  less  fastidious.  Indeed,  my 


A  MOUNTAIN-SIDE  RAMBLE.  181 

boots,  soaked  through  and  through  as  they 
were,  made  very  grateful  music  striking 
along  the  gravel.  And  after  supper,  while 
walking  back  and  forth  upon  the  piazza,  in 
all  the  luxury  of  slippers  and  a  winter  over- 
coat, I  turned  more  than  once  from  the 
glories  of  the  sunset  to  gaze  upon  the  black 
slope  of  Lafayette,  thinking  within  myself 
how  much  less  comfortable  I  should  be  up 
yonder  in  the  depths  of  the  forest,  so  dark 
and  wet,  without  company,  without  fire, 
without  overcoat,  and  without  supper.  Af- 
ter all,  mere  animal  comfort  is  not  to  be 
despised.  Let  us  be  thankful,  I  said,  for 
the  good  things  of  life,  of  no  matter  what 
grade ;  yes,  though  they  be  only  a  change 
of  clothing  and  a  summer  hotel. 

It  was  laughable  how  my  quiet  ramble 
had  turned  out.  My  friend,  the  red-eyed 
vireo,  may  or  may  not  have  stuck  to  his 
text ;  but  if  he  had  seen  me  in  the  midst 
of  my  retreat,  dashing  through  the  bushes 
and  clambering  over  the  fallen  trees,  he 
certainly  never  would  have  guessed  mine. 
"  Consider  the  lilies,"  indeed  !  He  was 
more  likely  to  think  of  a  familiar  Old  Tes- 
tament scripture:  "The  wicked  flee  when 
no  man  pursueth." 


A  PITCH-PINE  MEDITATION. 

So  waved  the  pine-tree  through  my  thought. 

EMERSON. 

IN  outward,  every-day  affairs,  in  what 
we  foolishly  call  real  life,  man  is  a  stickler 
for  regularity,  a  devout  believer  in  the  max- 
im, "  Order  is  heaven's  first  law."  He  sets 
his  house  at  right  angles  with  the  street; 
lays  out  his  grounds  in  the  straightest  of 
straight  lines,  or  in  the  most  undeviating  of 
curves ;  selects  his  shade-trees  for  their  trim, 
geometrical  habit ;  and,  all  in  all,  carries 
himself  as  if  precision  and  conformity  were 
the  height  of  virtue.  Yet  this  same  man, 
when  he  comes  to  deal  with  pictorial  rep- 
resentations, makes  up  his  judgment  ac- 
cording to  quite  another  standard  ;  finding 
nothing  picturesque  in  tidy  gardens  and 
shaven  lawns,  discarding  without  hesitation 
every  well-rounded,  symmetrical  tree,  de- 
lighting in  disorder  and  disproportion,  lov- 
ing a  ruin  better  than  the  best  appointed 


A  PITCH-PINE  MEDITATION.  183 

palace,  and  a  tumble-down  wall  better  than 
the  costliest  and  stanchest  of  new-laid  ma- 
sonry. It  is  hard  to  know  what  to  think 
of  an  inconsistency  like  this.  Why  should 
taste  and  principle  be  thus  opposed  to  each 
other,  as  if  the  same  man  were  half  Philis- 
tine, half  Bohemian  ?  Can  this  strong  aes- 
thetic preference  for  imperfection  be  based 
upon  some  permanent,  universal  law,  or  is 
it  only  a  passing  whim,  the  fashion  of  an 
hour? 

Whatever  we  may  say  of  such  a  prob- 
lem, —  and  where  one  knows  nothing,  it  is 
perhaps  wisest  to  say  nothing,  —  we  may 
surely  count  it  an  occasion  for  thankfulness 
that  a  thing  so  common  as  imperfection 
should  have  at  least  its  favorable  side. 
Music  would  soon  become  tame,  if  not  in- 
tolerable, without  here  and  there  a  discord ; 
and  who  knows  how  stupid  life  itself  might 
prove  without  some  slight  admixture  of 
evil?  From  my  study- windows  I  can  see 
sundry  of  the  newest  and  most  commodious 
mansions  in  town ;  but  I  more  often  look, 
not  at  them,  but  at  a  certain  dilapidated 
old  house,  blackening  for  want  of  paint, 
and  fast  falling  into  decay,  but  with  one 


184  A  PITCH-PINE  MEDITATION. 

big  elm  before  the  door.  I  have  no  han- 
kerings to  live  in  it;  as  a  dwelling-place,  I 
should  no  doubt  prefer  one  of  the  more 
modern  establishments ;  but  for  an  object 
to  look  at,  give  me  the  shanty. 

Human  nature  is  nothing  if  not  paradox- 
ical. In  its  eyes  everything  is  both  good 
and  bad;  and  for  my  own  part,  I  some- 
times wonder  whether  this  may  not  be  the 
sum  of  all  wisdom,  —  to  find  everything 
good  in  its  place,  and  everything  bad  out 
of  its  place. 

Thoughts  like  these  suggest  themselves 
as  I  look  at  the  pitch-pine,  which,  to  speak 
only  of  such  trees  as  grow  within  the  range 
of  my  own  observation,  is  the  one  irregular 
member  of  the  family  of  cone-bearers.  The 
white  or  Weymouth  pine,  the  hemlock,  the 
cedars,  the  spruces,  the  fir,  and  the  larch, 
these  are  all,  in  different  ways,  of  a  de- 
cidedly symmetrical  turn.  Each  of  them 
has  its  own  definite  plan,  and  builds  itself 
up  in  fastidious  conformity  therewith,  ex- 
cept as  untoward  outward  conditions  may 
now  and  then  force  an  individual  into  some 
abnormal  peculiarity.  And  all  of  them,  it 
need  not  be  said,  have  the  defect  of  this 


A  PITCH-PINE  MEDITATION.          185 

quality.  They  are  not  without  charm,  not 
even  the  black  spruce,  while  the  Weymouth 
pine  and  the  hemlock  are  often  of  surpass- 
ing magnificence  and  beauty ;  but  a  punctil- 
ious adherence  to  rule  must  of  necessity  be 
attended  with  a  corresponding  absence  of 
freedom  and  variety.  The  pitch-pine,  on 
the  other  hand,  if  it  works  upon  any  set 
scheme,  as  no  doubt  it  does,  has  the  grace 
to  keep  it  out  of  sight.  Its  gift  is  genius 
rather  than  talent.  It  has  an  air,  as  genius 
always  has,  of  achieving  its  results  without 
effort  or  premeditation.  Its  method  is  that 
of  spontaneity ;  its  style,  that  of  the  pic- 
turesque-homely, so  dear  to  the  artistic  tem- 
perament. Its  whole  make-up  is  consis- 
tent with  this  germinal  or  controlling  idea. 
Angular  in  outline,  rough  and  ragged  in  its 
bole,  with  its  needles  stiff  and  its  cones 
hard  and  sharp,  it  makes  no  attempt  at 
gracefulness,  yet  by  virtue  of  its  very  way- 
wardness it  becomes,  as  if  in  spite  of  itself, 
more  attractive  than  any  of  its  relatives. 

The  Puritans  of  New  England  are  mostly 
dead  ;  the  last  of  their  spiritual  descend- 
ants, we  may  fear,  will  soon  be  dead  like- 
wise ;  but  as  long  as  Pinus  rigida  covers 


186  A  PITCE-PINE  MEDITATION. 

the  sandy  knolls  of  Massachusetts,  the 
sturdy,  uncompromising,  independent,  eco- 
nomical, indefatigable,  all-enduring  spirit  of 
Puritanism  will  be  worthily  represented  in 
this  its  sometime  thriving-place. 

For  the  pitch-pine's  noblest  qualities  are, 
after  all,  not  artistic,  but  moral.  Such  un- 
alterable contentment,  such  hardiness  and 
persistency,  are  enough  to  put  the  stoutest 
of  us  to  shame.  Once  give  it  root,  and  no 
sterility  of  soil  can  discourage  it.  Every- 
thing else  may  succumb,  but  it  —  it  and 
the  gray  birch  —  will  make  shift  to  live. 
Like  the  resin  that  exudes  from  it,  having 
once  taken  hold,  it  has  no  thought  of  let- 
ting go.  It  is  never  "  planted  by  the  riv- 
ers of  water,"  but  all  the  same  its  leaf  does 
not  wither.  No  summer  so  hot  and  dry,  no 
winter  so  cold  and  wet,  but  it  keeps  its  per- 
ennial green.  What  cannot  be  done  in  one 
year  may,  perchance,  be  accomplished  in 
three  or  four.  It.  spends  several  seasons  in 
ripening  its  fruit.  Think  of  an  apple-tree 
thus  patient ! 

The  pitch-pine  is  beautiful  to  look  at, 
and  "  profitable  for  doctrine,  for  reproof, 
for  correction,  for  instruction  in  righteous- 


A  PITCH-PINE  MEDITATION.  187 

ness,"  but  it  would  be  a  shame  not  to  add 
that  it  is  also  most  excellent  to  smell  of. 
If  I  am  to  judge,  scarcely  any  odor  wears 
better  than  this  of  growing  turpentine. 
There  is  something  unmistakably  clean  and 
wholesome  about  it.  The  very  first  whiff 
savors  of  salubrity.  "  The  belief  in  the 
good  effects  of  pine  forests  in  cases  of 
phthisis  is  quite  unanimous"  (so  I  read  the 
other  day  in  a  scientific  journal),  "and  the 
clinical  evidence  in  favor  of  their  beneficial 
influence  is  unquestioned."  Who  can  tell 
whether  our  New  England  climate,  with 
all  its  consumptive  provocations,  might  not 
be  found  absolutely  unendurable  but  for 
the  amelioration  furnished  by  this  gener- 
ously diffused  terebinthine  prophylactic? 

When  all  is  said,  however,  nothing  else 
about  the  pitch-pine  ever  affects  me  so 
deeply  as  its  behavior  after  man  has  done 
his  worst  upon  it.  It  would  appear  to 
have  some  vague  sense  of  immortality,  some 
gropings  after  a  resurrection.  The  tree  was 
felled  in  the  autumn,  and  the  trunk  cut  up 
ignominiously  into  cord-wood ;  but  in  the 
spring  the  prostrate  logs  begin  to  put  forth 
scattered  tufts  of  bright  green  leaves, — life 


188  A  PITCH-PINE  M  EDIT  AT  JON. 

still  working  under  the  ribs  of  death,  — 
while  the  stump,  whether  "  through  the 
scent  of  water "  I  cannot  say,  is  perhaps 
sending  up  fresh  shoots,  —  a  piece  of  post- 
mortem hopefulness  the  like  of  which  no 
white  pine,  for  all  its  seemingly  greater 
vitality,  was  ever  known  to  exhibit.  But 
leaves  and  shoots  alike  come  to  nothing. 
If  a  pitch-pine  die,  it  shall  not  live  again. 
The  wood's  blind  impulses,  if  not  false 
in  themselves,  were  at  least  falsely  inter- 
preted. Alas !  alas !  who  has  not  found  it 
so?  What  seemed  like  the  prophetic  stir- 
rings of  a  new  life,  were  only  the  last  flick- 
erings  of  a  lamp  that  was  going  out. 


ESOTERIC   PERIPATETICISM. 

I  walk  about ;  not  to  and  from.  —  CHARLES  LAMB. 

TAKING  a  walk  is  something  different 
from  traveling  afoot.  The  latter  I  may  do 
when  on  my  way  to  the  cars  or  the  shop ; 
but  my  neighbor,  seeing  me  at  such  times, 

never  says  to  himself,  "  Mr. is  taking 

a  walk."  He  knows  I  cannot  be  doing  that, 
so  long  as  I  am  walking  for  the  sake  of  get- 
ting somewhere.  Even  the  common  people 
understand  that  utilitarianism  has  nothing 
to  do  with  the  true  peripatetic  philosophy. 

The  disciples  of  this  philosophy,  the  no- 
ble fraternity  of  saunterers,  among  whom  I 
modestly  enroll  myself,  are  not  greatly  con- 
cerned with  any  kind  of  merely  physical  ac- 
tivity. They  believe  that  everything  has 
both  a  lower  and  a  higher  use ;  and  that  in 
the  order  of  evolution  the  lower  precedes 
the  higher.  Time  was  when  walking  — 
going  erect  on  one's  hind  limbs  —  was  a 
rare  accomplishment,  sufficient  of  itself  to 


190  ESOTERIC  PF.RIPATETIC1SM. 

confer  distinction.  Little  by  little  this  ac- 
complishment became  general,  and  for  this 
long  time  now  it  has  been  universal;  yet 
even  to  the  present  day  it  is  not  quite  nat- 
ural ;  else  why  does  every  human  infant  still 
creep  on  all-fours  till  it  is  taught  otherwise  ? 
But  of  all  who  practise  the  art,  only  here 
and  there  a  single  individual  has  divined 
its  loftier  use  and  significance.  The  rest 
are  still  in  the  materialistic  stage  —  pedes- 
trians simply.  In  their  view  walking  is  only 
a  convenience,  or  perhaps  I  should  say  an 
inconvenience  ;  a  cheap  device  for  getting 
from  one  place  to  another.  They  resort  to 
it  for  business,  or,  it  may  be,  for  health. 
Of  strolling  as  a  means  of  happiness  they 
have  scarcely  so  much  as  heard.  They  be- 
long to  the  great  and  fashionable  sect  of  the 
wise  and  prudent ;  and  from  all  such  the 
true  peripatetic  philosophy  is  forever  hid- 
den. We  who  are  in  the  secret  would 
gladly  publish  it  if  we  could ;  but  by  its 
very  nature  the  doctrine  is  esoteric. 

Whoso  would  be  initiated  into  its  mys- 
teries must  first  of  all  learn  how  not  to  be 
in  a  hurry.  Life  is  short,  it  is  true,  and 
time  is  precious;  but  a  day  is  worth  notli- 


ESOTERIC  PERIPATETICISM.          191 

ing  of  itself.  It  is  like  money, — good  only 
for  what  it  will  buy.  One  mast  not  play 
the  miser,  even  with  time.  "  There  is  that 
withholdeth  more  than  is  meet,  but  it  tend- 
eth  to  poverty."  Who  does  not  know  men 
so  penurious  of  minutes,  so  everlastingly 
preoccupied,  that  they  seldom  spend  an 
hour  to  any  good  purpose,  —  confirming  the 
paradox  of  Jesus,  "  He  that  loveth  his  life 
shall  lose  it"?  And  between  a  certain  two 
sisters,  was  not  the  verdict  given  in  favor  of 
the  one  who  (if  we  take  the  other's  word 
for  it)  was  little  better  than  an  idler?  The 
saunterer  has  laid  to  heart  this  lesson.  On 
principle,  he  devotes  a  part  of  his  time  to 
what  his  virtuous  townsmen  call  doing 
nothing.  "  What  profit  hath  a  man  of  all 
his  labor?"  A  pertinent  inquiry;  but  I  am 
not  aware  that  the  author  of  it  ever  sug- 
gested any  similar  doubt  as  to  the  net  re- 
sults of  well-directed  idleness.  A  laborious, 
painstaking  spirit  is  commendable  in  its 
place;  it  would  go  hard  with  the  world  to 
get  on  without  it ;  but  the  fact  remains 
that  some  of  the  very  best  things  of  this 
life  —  things  unseen  and  (therefore)  eter- 
nal—  are  never  to  be  come  at  industriously. 


192  ESOTERIC  PERIPATETIC1SM. 

It  is  useless  to  chase  them.  We  can  only 
put  ourselves  in  their  way,  and  be  still. 
The  secret  is  as  old  as  mysticism  itself :  if 
the  vision  tarry,  wait  for  it. 

Walking,  then,  as  adepts  use  the  word, 
is  not  so  much  a  physical  as  a  spiritual 
exercise.  And  if  any  be  disposed  to  look 
askance  at  this  form  of  expression,  as  if 
there  were  possibly  a  suggestion  of  pro- 
fanity about  it,  they  will  please  bethink 
themselves  of  an  ancient  sacred  book  (to 
which,  according  to  some  friendly  critics,  I 
am  strangely  fond  of  referring),  wherein  is 
narrated  the  history  of  a  man  who  went  out 
into  the  fields  at  eventide  to  meditate.  He 
could  never  have  misunderstood  our  speech, 
nor  dreamed  of  its  needing  justification. 
And  your  true  saunterers  of  the  present 
day,  no  matter  what  their  creed,  are  of 
Isaac's  kin,  —  devout  and  imaginative  souls, 
who  may  now  and  then  be  forced  to  cry 
with  the  Psalmist,  "  O  that  I  had  wings ! " 
but  who,  in  all  ordinary  circumstances,  are 
able  to  walk  away  and  be  at  rest.  Like 
the  patriarch,  they  have  accustomed  their 
feet  to  serve  them  as  ministers  of  grace. 

It  must  be  a  bad  day  indeed  when,  on  re- 


ESOTERIC  PERIPATETICISM.  193 

treating  to  the  woods  or  the  fields,  we  find  it 
impossible  to  leave  the  wearisome  world — 
yes,  and  our  more  wearisome  selves,  also  — 
behind  us.  As  a  rule,  this  result  is  not  the 
better  attained  by  quickening  the  gait.  We 
may  allow  for  exceptions,  of  course,  cases 
in  which  a  counter-excitement  may  perad- 
venture  be  of  use ;  but  most  often  it  is 
better  to  seek  quietness  of  heart  at  a  quiet 
pace;  to  steal  away  from  our  persecutors, 
rather  than  to  invite  pursuit  by  too  evident 
a  purpose  of  escape.  The  lazy  motion  is  of 
itself  a  kind  of  spiritual  sedative.  As  we 
proceed,  gazing  idly  at  the  sky,  or  with  our 
attention  caught  by  some  wayside  flower  or 
passing  bird,  the  mind  grows  placid,  and, 
like  smooth  water,  receives  into  itself  the 
image  of  heaven.  What  a  benediction  of. 
repose  falls  upon  us  sometimes  from  an  old 
tree,  as  we  pass  under  it !  So  self-poised  it 
seems ;  so  alive,  and  yet  so  still !  It  was 
planted  here  before  we  were  born.  It  will 
be  green  and  flourishing  long  after  we  are 
dead.  In  it  we  may  behold  a  perfect  illus- 
tration of  the  dignity  and  peace  of  a  life 
undeviatingly  obedient  to  law,  —  the  law  of 
Us  own  being ;  never  in  haste,  never  at  a 


194  ESOTERIC  PERIPATETICISM. 

loss,  but  in  every  fibre  doing,  day  by  day, 
its  appropriate  work.  Sunshine  and  rain, 
heat  and  cold,  calm  and  storm,  —  all  minis- 
ter to  its  necessities.  It  has  only  to  stand 
in  its  place  and  grow;  happy  in  spring- 
time, with  its  buds  and  leaves ;  happy  in 
autumn,  with  its  fruit ;  happy,  too,  in  win- 
ter,—  repining  not  when  forced  to  wait 
through  months  of  bareness  and  dearth  for 
the  touch  of  returning  warmth.  Enviable 
tree !  As  we  contemplate  it,  we  feel  our- 
selves rebuked,  and,  at  the  same  time,  com- 
forted. We,  also,  will  be  still,  and  let  the 
life  that  is  in  us  work  itself  out  to  the  ap- 
pointed end. 

The  seeing  eye  is  a  gift  so  unusual  that 
whoever  accustoms  himself  to  watch  what 
passes  around  him  in  the  natural  world  is 
sure  to  be  often  entertained  by  the  remarks, 
complimentary  and  otherwise,  which  such 
an  idiosyncrasy  calls  forth.  Some  of  his 
neighbors  pity  him  as  a  ne'er-do-well,  while 
others  devoutly  attribute  to  him  a  sort  of 
superhuman  faculty.  If  only  they  had  such 
eyes  !  But.  alas !  they  go  into  the  woods, 
and  they  see  nothing.  Meanwhile  the  ob- 
ject of  their  envy  knows  well  enough  that 


ESOTERIC  PERIPATETICISM.  195 

his  own  vision  is  but  rudimentary.  He 
catches  a  glimpse  now  and  then,  —  nothing 
more.  Like  his  neighbors,  he,  too,  prays 
for  sight.  Sooner  or  later,  however,  he  dis- 
covers that  it  is  a  blessing  to  be  able  on 
occasion  to  leave  one's  scientific  senses  at 
home.  For  here,  again,  surprising  as  it 
may  seem,  it  is  necessary  to  be  on  our 
guard  against  a  superserviceable  activity. 
There  are  times  when  we  go  out-of-doors, 
not  after  information,  but  in  quest  of  a 
mood.  Then  we  must  not  be  over-obser- 
vant. Nature  is  coy ;  she  appreciates  the 
difference  between  an  inquisitor  and  a 
lover.  The  curious  have  their  reward,  no 
doubt,  but  her  best  gifts  are  reserved  for 
suitors  of  a  more  sympathetic  turn.  And 
unless  it  be  here  and  there  some  creature 
altogether  devoid  of  poetic  sensibility,  some 
"fingering  slave,"  — 

"  One  who  would  peep  and  botanize 
Upon  his  mother's  grave,"  — 

unless  it  be  such  a  person  as  this,  too  poor 
to  be  conscious  of  his  own  poverty,  there 
can  be  no  enthusiastic  student  of  natural 
history  but  has  found  out  for  himself  the 
truth  and  importance  of  the  paradoxical 


196  ESOTERIC  PER1PATETICISM. 

caution  now  suggested.  One  may  become 
so  zealous  a  botanist  as  almost  to  cease  to 
be  a  man.  The  shifting  panorama  of  the 
heavens  and  the  earth  no  longer  appeals  to 
him.  He  is  now  a  specialist,  and  go  where 
he  will,  he  sees  nothing  but  specimens.  Or 
he  may  give  himself  up  to  ornithology,  till 
eye  and  ear  grow  so  abnormally  sensitive 
that  not  a  bird  can  move  or  twitter  but  he 
is  Instantly  aware  of  it.  He  must  attend, 
whether  he  will  or  no.  So  long  as  this 
servitude  lasts,  it  is  idle  to  go  afield  in 
pursuit  of  joys  "  high  and  aloof,"  such  as 
formerly  awaited  him  in  lonesome  places. 
Better  betake  himself  to  city  streets  or  a 
darkened  room.  For  myself,  I  thankfully 
bear  testimony  that  when  I  have  been  thus 
under  the  tyranny  of  my  own  senses  I  have 
found  no  more  certain  means  of  temporary 
deliverance  than  to  walk  in  the  early  even- 
ing. Indeed,  I  have  been  ready,  many  a 
time,  to  exclaim  with  Wordsworth, — 
"  Hail,  Twilight,  sovereign  of  one  peaceful  hour ! " 

Then  the  eye  has  no  temptation  to  busy 
itself  with  petty  details ;  "  day's  mutable 
distinctions"  are  removed  from  sight,  and 
the  mind  is  left  undistracted  to  rise,  if  it 


ESOTERIC  PERIPATETICISM.  197 

can,  into  communion  with  the  spirit  of  the 
scene. 

After  all,  it  is  next  to  nothing  we  are 
able  to  tell  of  the  pleasures  of  such  fellow- 
ship. We  cannot  define  them  to  ourselves, 
—  though  they  are  "felt  in  the  blood  and 
felt  along  the  heart," — much  less  to  an- 
other. Least  of  all  need  we  attempt  to  ex- 
plain them  to  any  Philistine ;  the  walls  of 
whose  house  are  likely  enough  hung  with 
"chromos,"  but  who  stares  at  you  for  a 
fool  or  a  sentimentalist  (which  comes,  per- 
haps, to  nearly  the  same  thing),  when  he 
catches  you  standing  still  before  one  of 
Nature's  pictures.  How  shall  one  blest 
with  a  feeling  for  the  woods  put  into  lan- 
guage the  delight  he  experiences  in  saun- 
tering along  their  shady  aisles?  He  enjoys 
the  stillness,  the  sense  of  seclusion,  the 
flicker  of  sunlight  and  shadow,  the  rustle 
of  leaves,  the  insect's  hum,  the  passing  of 
the  chance  butterfly,  the  chirp  of  the  bird, 
or  its  full-voiced  song,  the  tracery  of  lichens 
on  rock  and  tree,  the  tuft  of  ferns,  the  car- 
pet of  moss,  the  brightness  of  blossom  and 
fruit, — all  the  numberless  sights  and  sounds 
of  the  forest ;  but  it  is  not  any  of  these,  nor 


198  ESOTERIC  PERIPATET1CISM. 

all  of  them  together,  that  make  the  glory 
of  the  place.  It  is  the  wood — and  this  is 
something  more  than  the  sum  of  all  its 
parts  —  which  lays  hold  upon  him,  taking 
him,  as  it  were,  out  of  the  world  and  out  of 
himself.  Let  practical  people  sneer,  and 
the  industrious  frown ;  we  who  retain  our 
relish  for  these  natural  and  innocent  feli- 
cities may  well  enough  be  indifferent  to 
neighborly  comments.  Whatever  world- 
lings may  think,  the  hour  is  not  wasted 
that  brings  with  it  tranquillity  of  mind  and 
an  uplifting  of  the  heart.  We  seem  to  be 
going  nowhere  and  looking  for  nothing? 
Yes;  but  one  may  be  glad  to  visit  the 
Land  of  Beulah,  though  he  have  no  special 
errand  thither.  Who  ever  saw  a  child  but 
was  fond  of  an  idle  hour  in  the  woods? 
And  for  my  part,  while  I  have  with  me  the 
children  (and  the  dogs  and  the  poets)  I 
count  myself  in  excellent  company ;  for 
the  time,  at  least,  I  can  do  without  what  is 
vulgarly  esteemed  good  society.  A  man  to 
whom  a  holiday  affords  no  pleasure  is  al- 
ready as  good  as  dead;  nothing  will  save 
him  but  to  be  born  again.  We  have  heard 
of  convicts  so  wonted  to  prison  cells  that 


ESOTERIC  PERIPATETIC  IBM.  199 

they  could  feel  at  home  nowhere  else  ;  and 
we  have  known  men  of  business  whose  feet, 
when  they  stopped  going  the  regular  hum- 
drum round,  knew  no  other  course  to  take 
but  to  steer  straight  for  the  grave.  It 
behooves  us  to  heed  the  warning  of  such 
examples,  and  now  and  then  to  be  idle 
betimes,  lest  the  capacity  for  idleness  be 
extirpated  by  disuse. 

The  practice  of  sauntering  may  especially 
be  recommended  as  a  corrective  of  the  mod- 
ern vice  of  continual  reading.  For  too 
many  of  us  it  has  come  to  be  well-nigh  im- 
possible to  sit  down  by  ourselves  without 
turning  round  instinctively  in  search  of  a 
book  or  a  newspaper.  The  habit  indicates 
a  vacancy  of  mind,  a  morbid  intellectual 
restlessness,  and  may  not  inaptly  be  com- 
pared with  that  incessant  delirious  activity 
which  those  who  are  familiar  with  death- 
bed scenes  know  so  well  as  a  symptom  of 
approaching  dissolution.  Possibly  the  two 
cases  are  not  in  all  respects  analogous. 
Books  are  an  inestimable  boon ;  let  me 
never  be  without  the  best  of  them,  both  old 
and  new.  Still,  one  would  fain  have  an 
occasional  thought  of  one's  own,  even 


200  ESOTERIC  PER1PATETICISM. 

though,  as  the  common  saying  is,  it  be 
nothing  to  speak  of.  Meditation  is  an  old- 
fashioned  exercise  ;  the  very  word  is  com- 
ing to  have  an  almost  archaic  sound ;  but 
neither  the  word  nor  the  thing  will  alto- 
gether pass  into  forgetfulness  so  long  as  the 
race  of  saunterers  —  the  spiritual  descend- 
ants of  Isaac  —  continue  to  inherit  the 
earth. 

There  is  little  danger  that  the  lives  of 
any  of  us  will  be  too  solitary  or  lived  at  too 
leisurely  a  rate.  The  world  grows  busier 
and  busier.  Those  whose  passion  for  Na- 
ture is  strongest  and  most  deep-seated  are 
driven  to  withhold  from  her  all  but  the 
odds  and  ends  of  the  day.  We  rebel  some- 
times ;  the  yoke  grows  unendurable ;  come 
what  may,  we  will  be  quit  of  it;  but  the 
existing  order  of  things  proves  too  strong 
for  us,  and  anon  we  settle  back  into  the 
old  bondage.  And  perhaps  it  is  better  so. 
Even  the  most  simple  and  natural  delights 
are  best  appreciated  when  rarely  and  briefly 
enjoyed.  So  I  persuade  myself  that,  all  in 
all,  it  is  good  for  me  to  have  only  one  or 
two  hours  a  day  for  the  woods.  Human 
nature  is  weak;  who  knows  but  I  might 


ESOTERIC  PERIPATETICISM.  201 

grow  lazy,  were  I  my  own  master?  At 
least,  "  the  fine  point  of  seldom  pleasure  " 
would  be  blunted. 

The  ideal  plan  would  include  two  walks : 
one  in  the  morning  for  observation,  with 
every  sense  alert ;  the  other  toward  night, 
for  a  mood  of  "  wise  passiveness,"  wherein 
Nature  should  be  left  free  to  have  her  own 
way  with  the  heart  and  the  imagination. 
Then  the  laureate's  prayer  might  be  ful- 
filled:— 

"  Let  knowledge  grow  from  more  to  more, 
But  more  of  reverence  in  us  dwell ; 
That  mind  and  soul,  according  well, 
May  make  one  music,  as  before." 

But  this  strict  division  of  time  is  too  often 
out  of  the  question,  and  we  must  contrive, 
as  best  we  can,  to  unite  the  two  errands,  — 
study  and  reverie  :  using  our  eyes  and  ears, 
but  not  abusing  them  ;  and,  on  the  other 
hand,  giving  free  play  to  fancy  and  imagi- 
nation, without  permitting  ourselves  to  de- 
generate into  impotent  dreamers.  Every 
walker  ought  to  be  a  faithful  student  of  at 
least  one  branch  of  natural  history,  not 
omitting  Latin  names  and  the  very  latest 
discoveries  and  theories.  But,  withal,  let 


202  ESOTERIC  PERIPATETICISM. 

him  make  sure  that  his  acquaintance  with 
out-of-door  life  is  sympathetic,  and  not 
merely  curious  or  scientific.  All  honor  to 
the  new  science  and  its  votaries  ;  we  run 
small  risk  of  too  much  learning;  but  it 
should  be  kept  in  mind  that  the  itch  for 
finding  out  secrets  is  to  be  accounted  no- 
ble or  ignoble,  according  as  the  spirit  that 
prompts  the  research  is  liberal  or  petty. 
Curiosity  and  love  of  the  truth  are  not  yet 
identical,  however  it  may  flatter  our  self- 
esteem  to  ignore  the  distinction.  One  may 
spend  one's  days  and  nights  in  nothing  else 
but  in  hearing  or  telling  some  new  thing, 
and  after  all  be  no  better  than  a  gossip.  It 
would  prove  a  sorry  exchange  for  such  of 
us  as  have  entered,  in  any  degree,  into  the 
feeling  of  Wordsworth's  lines,  — 

"  To  me,  the  meanest  flower  that  blows  can  give 
Thoughts  that  do  often  lie  too  deep  for  tears,"  — 

and  I  believe  the  capacity  for  such  moods 
to  be  less  uncommon  than  many  suppose, 
—  it  would  be  a  sorry  bargain,  I  say,  for  us 
to  lose  this  sensitiveness  to  the  charm  of 
living  beauty,  though  meanwhile  we  were 
to  grow  wiser  than  all  the  moderns  touch- 
ing the  morphology  and  histology  of  every 
blossom  under  the  sun. 


ESOTERIC  PERIPATETICISM.  203 

"Who  loves  not  Knowledge?     Who  shall  rail  against 
her  beauty  •?  " 

Not  we,  certainly  ;  but  we  will  be  bold  to 
add,  with  Tennyson  himself,  — 

"  Let  her  know  her  place  ; 
She  is  the  second,  not  the  first." 

In  treating  a  theme  of  this  kind,  it  is 
hard  not  to  violate  Nature's  own  method, 
and  fall  into  a  strain  of  exhortation.  Our 
intercourse  with  her  is  so  good  and  whole- 
some, such  an  inexhaustible  and  ever-ready 
resource  against  the  world's  trouble  and  un- 
rest, that  we  would  gladly  have  everybody 
to  share  it.  We  say,  over  and  over,  with 
Emerson,  — 

"  If  I  could  put  my  woods  in  song, 
And  tell  what  's  there  enjoyed, 
All  men  would  to  my  gardens  throng, 
And  leave  the  cities  void." 

But  this  may  not  be.  At  best,  words  can 
only  hint  at  sensations ;  and  the  hint  can 
be  taken  only  by  as  many  as  are  predestined 
to  hear  it.  As  I  have  said,  the  doctrine  is 
esoteric.  How  are  those  who  have  never 
felt  the  like  to  understand  the  satisfaction 
with  which  I  recall  a  certain  five  or  ten 
minutes  of  a  cool  morning  in  May,  a  year 


204  ESOTERIC  PERIPATETIC  ISM. 

or  more  ago  ?  I  was  drawing  towards 
home,  after  a  jaunt  of  an  hour  or  two, 
when  I  came  suddenly  into  a  sheltered  and 
sunny  nook,  where  a  bed  of  the  early  saxi- 
frage was  already  in  full  bloom,  while  a 
most  exquisite  little  bee-fly  of  a  beautiful 
shade  of  warm  brown  was  hovering  over  it, 
draining  the  tiny,  gold-lined  chalices,  one 
by  one,  with  its  long  proboscis,  which 
looked  precisely  like  the  bill  of  a  humming- 
bird. An  ordinary  picture  enough,  as  far 
as  words  go,  —  only  a  little  sunshine,  a 
patch  of  inconspicuous  and  common  flow- 
ers, and  a  small  Bombylian  without  even 
the  distinction  of  bright  colors.  True;  but 
my  spirit  drank  a  nectar  sweeter  than  any 
the  insect  was  sipping.  And  though,  as  a 
rule,  an  experience  of  this  sort  were  per- 
haps better  left  unspoken,  — 

"A  thought  of  private  recollection,  sweet  and  still," 

yet  the  mention  of  it  can  do  no  harm,  while 
it  illustrates  what  I  take  to  be  one  of  the 
principal  advantages  of  the  saunterer's  con- 
dition. His  treasures  are  never  far  to  seek. 
His  delight  is  in  Nature  herself,  rather  than 
in  any  of  her  more  unusual  manifestations. 
He  is  not  of  that  large  and  increasingly 


ESOTERIC  PERIPATETIC1SU.  205 

fashionable  class  who  fancy  themselves  lov- 
ers of  Nature,  while  in  fact  they  are  merely 
admirers,  more  or  less  sincere,  of  fine  scen- 
ery. Not  that  anything  is  too  beautiful  for 
our  rambler's  appreciation  :  he  has  an  eye 
for  the  best  that  earth  and  heaven  can  offer ; 
he  knows  the  exhilaration  of  far-reaching 
prospects;  but  he  is  not  dependent  upon 
such  extraordinary  favors  of  Providence. 
He  has  no  occasion  to  run  hither  and 
thither  in  search  of  new  and  strange  sights. 
The  old  familiar  pastures  ;  the  bushy  lane, 
in  which  his  feet  have  loitered  year  after 
year,  ever  since  they  began  to  go  alone ;  an 
unfrequented  road ;  a  wooded  slope,  or  a 
mossy  glen ;  the  brook  of  his  boyish  memo- 
ries; if  need  be,  nothing  but  a  clump  of 
trees  or  a  grassy  meadow,  —  these  are 
enough  for  his  pleasure.  Fortunate  man  ! 
Who  should  be  happy,  if  not  he  ?  Out  of 
his  own  doorway  he  steps  at  will  into  the 
Elysian  fields. 


BUTTERFLY  PSYCHOLOGY. 

Gay  creatures  of  the  element, 
That  in  the  colors  of  the  rainbow  live.  —  MILTON. 

Speak  to  me  as  to  thy  thinkings.  —  SHAKESPEARE. 

IT  happened  to  me  once  to  spend  a  long 
summer  afternoon  under  a  linden-tree,  read- 
ing "  Middlemarch."  The  branches  were 
loaded  with  blossoms,  and  the  heavy  per- 
fume attracted  the  bees  from  far  and  near, 
insomuch  that  my  ears  were  all  the  time 
full  of  their  humming.  Butterflies  also 
came,  though  in  smaller  numbers,  and  si- 
lently. Whenever  I  looked  up  from  my 
book  I  was  sure  to  find  at  least  one  or  two 
fluttering  overhead.  They  were  mostly  of 
three  of  our  larger  sorts,  —  the  Turnus,  the 
Troilus,  and  the  Archippus  (what  noble 
names !),  beautifully  contrasted  in  color. 
The  Turnus  specimens  were  evidently  the 
remnant  of  a  brood  which  had  nearly 
passed  away ;  their  tattered  wings  showed 
that  they  had  been  exposed  to  the  wear 
and  tear  of  a  long  life,  as  butterflies  reckon. 


BUTTERFLY  PSYCHOLOGY.  207 

Some  of  them  were  painful  to  look  at,  and 
I  remember  one  in  particular,  so  maimed 
and  helpless  that,  with  a  sudden  impulse  of 
compassion,  I  rose  and  stepped  upon  it.  It 
seemed  an  act  of  mercy  to  send  the  wretched 
cripple  after  its  kindred.  As  I  looked  at 
these  loiterers,  with  their  frayed  and  faded 
wings,  —  some  of  them  half  gone,  —  I  found 
myself,  almost  before  I  knew  it,  thinking 
of  Dorothea  Brooke,  of  whose  lofty  ideals, 
bitter  disappointments,  and  partial  joys  I 
was  reviewing  the  story.  After  all,  was 
there  really  any  wide  difference  between 
the  two  lives  ?  One  was  longer,  the  other 
shorter ;  but  only  as  one  dewdrop  outlasts 
another  on  the  grass. 

"  A  moment's  halt,  a  momentary  taste 
Of  Being  from  the  well  amid  the  waste, 
And  lo !  the  phantom  caravan  has  reach'd 
The  Nothing  it  set  out  from." 

Then  I  fell  to  musing,  as  I  had  often  done 
before,  upon  the  mystery  of  an  insect's  life 
and  mind. 

This  tiger  swallow-tail,  that  I  had  just 
trodden  into  the  ground,  —  what  could  have 
been  its  impressions  of  this  curious  world 
wherein  to  it  hud  been  ushered  so  uncere- 


208  BUTTERFLY  PSYCHOLOGY. 

moniously,  and  in  which  its  day  had  been 
so  transient?  A  month  ago,  a  little  more 
or  a  little  less,  it  had  emerged  from  its 
silken  shroud,  dried  its  splendid  party-col- 
ored wings  in  the  sun,  and  forthwith  had 
gone  sailing  away,  over  the  pasture  and 
through  the  wood,  in  quest  of  something, 
it  could  hardly  have  known  what.  Nobody 
had  welcomed  it.  When  it  came,  the  last 
of  its  ancestors  were  already  among  the  an- 
cients. Without  father  or  mother,  without 
infancy  or  childhood,  it  was  born  full-grown, 
and  set  out,  once  for  all,  upon  an  indepen- 
dent adult  existence.  What  such  a  state  of 
uninitiated,  uninstructed  being  may  be  like 
let  those  imagine  who  can. 

It  was  born  adult,  I  say ;  but  at  the  same 
time,  it  was  freer  from  care  than  the  most 
favored  of  human  children.  No  one  ever 
gave  it  a  lesson  or  set  it  a  task.  It  was 
never  restrained  nor  reproved ;  neither  its 
own  conscience  nor  any  outward  authority 
ever  imposed  the  lightest  check  upon  its 
desires.  It  had  nobody's  pleasure  to  think 
of  but  its  own ;  for  as  it  was  born  too  late 
to  know  father  or  mother,  so  also  it  died 
too  soon  to  see  its  own  offspring.  It  made 


B  UTTERFL  T  PS  YCHOL  OGY.  209 

no  plans,  needed  no  estate,  was  subject  to 
no  ambition.  Summer  was  here  when  it 
came  forth,  and  summer  was  still  here  when 
it  passed  away.  It  was  born,  it  lived  upon 
honey,  it  loved,  and  it  died.  Happy  and 
brief  biography  ! 

Happy  and  brief ;  but  what  a  multitude 
of  questions  are  suggested  by  it !  Did  the 
creature  know  anything  of  its  preexistence, 
either  in  the  chrysalis  or  earlier?  If  so, 
did  it  look  back  upon  that  far-away  time 
as  upon  a  golden  age  ?  Or  was  it  really  as 
careless  as  it  seemed,  neither  brooding  over 
the  past  nor  dreaming  of  the  future  ?  Was 
it  aware  of  its  own  beauty,  seeing  itself 
some  day  reflected  in  the  pool  as  it  came  to 
the  edge  to  drink?  Did  it  recognize  smaller 
butterflies — the  white  and  the  yellow,  and 
even  the  diminutive  "  copper  "  —  as  poor  re- 
lations ;  felicitating  itself,  meanwhile,  upon 
its  own  superior  size,  its  brilliant  orange- 
red  eye-spots,  and  its  gorgeous  tails  ?  Did 
it  mourn  over  its  faded  broken  wings  as  age 
came  on,  or  when  an  unexpected  gust  drove 
it  sharply  against  a  thorn  ?  Or  was  it  en- 
abled to  take  every  mischance  and  change 
in  a  philosophical  spirit,  perceiving  all  such 


210  BUTTERFLY  PSYCHOLOGY. 

evils  to  have  their  due  and  necessary  place 
in  the  order  of  Nature  ?  Was  it  frightened 
when  the  first  night  settled  down  upon  it, 
—  the  horrible  black  darkness,  that  seemed 
to  be  making  a  sudden  end  of  all  things  ? 
As  it  saw  a  caterpillar  here  and  there,  did 
it  ever  suspect  any  relationship  between  the 
hairy  crawling  thing  and  itself  ;  or  would 
it  have  been  mortally  offended  with  any 
profane  lepidopteran  Darwin  who  should 
have  hinted  at  such  a  possibility  ? 

The  Antiopa  butterfly,  according  to  some 
authorities  a  near  relative  of  the  tiger  swal- 
low-tail, has  long  been  especially  attractive 
to  me  because  of  its  habit  of  passing  the 
winter  in  a  state  of  hibernation,  and  then 
reappearing  upon  the  wing  before  the  very 
earliest  of  the  spring  flowers.  A  year  ago, 
Easter  fell  upon  the  first  day  of  April.  I 
spent  the  morning  out-of-doors,  hoping  to 
discover  some  first  faint  tokens  of  a  resur- 
rection. Nor  was  I  disappointed.  In  a 
sunny  stretch  of  the  lonely  road,  I  came 
suddenly  upon  five  of  these  large  "  mourn- 
ing-cloaks," all  of  them  spread  flat  upon  the 
wet  gravel,  sucking  up  the  moisture  while 
the  sun  warmed  their  wings.  What  sight 


BUTTERFLY  PSYCHOLOGY.  211 

more  appropriate  for  Easter !  I  thought. 
These  were  some  who  had  been  dead,  and 
behold,  they  were  alive  again. 

Then,  as  before  under  the  linden-tree,  I 
fell  to  wondering.  What  were  they  think- 
ing about,  these  creatures  so  lately  born  a 
second  time  ?  Did  they  remember  their 
last  year's  existence  ?  And  what  could 
they  possibly  make  of  this  brown  and  deso- 
late world,  so  unlike  the  lingering  autumnal 
glories  in  the  midst  of  which,  five  or  six 
months  before,  they  had  "  fallen  asleep  "  ? 
Perhaps  they  had  been  dreaming.  In  any 
event,  they  could  have  no  idea  of  the  ice 
and  snow,  the  storms  and  the  frightful  cold, 
through  which  they  had  passed.  It  was 
marvelous  how  such  frail  atoms  had  with- 
stood such  exposure ;  yet  here  they  were, 
as  good  as  new,  and  so  happily  endowed 
that  they  had  no  need  to  wait  for  blossoms, 
but  could  draw  fresh  life  from  the  very 
mire  of  the  street. 

This  last  trait,  so  curiously  out  of  char- 
acter, as  it  seems  to  us,  suggests  one  further 
inquiry :  Have  butterflies  an  aesthetic  fac- 
ulty ?  They  appreciate  each  other's  adorn- 
ments, of  course.  Otherwise,  what  becomes 


212  BUTTERFLY  PSYCHOLOGY. 

of  the  accepted  doctrine  of  sexual  selection  ? 
And  if  they  appreciate  each  other's  beauty, 
what  is  to  hinder  our  believing  that  they 
enjoy  also  the  bright  colors  and  dainty 
shapes  of  the  flowers  on  which  they  feed  ? 
As  I  came  out  upon  the  veranda  of  a  sum- 
mer hotel,  two  or  three  friends  exclaimed  : 

44  Oh,  Mr. ,  you  should  have  been  here 

a  few  minutes  ago ;  you  would  have  seen 
something  quite  in  your  line.  A  butterfly 
was  fluttering  over  the  lawn,  and  noticing 
what  it  took  for  a  dandelion,  it  was  just 
settling  down  upon  it,  when  lo,  the  dande- 
lion moved,  and  proved  to  be  a  goldfinch ! " 
Evidently  the  insect  had  an  eye  for  color, 
and  was  altogether  like  one  of  us  in  its 
capacity  for  being  deceived. 

To  butterflies,  as  to  angels,  all  things  are 
pure.  They  extract  honey  from  the  vilest 
of  materials.  But  their  tastes  and  propen- 
sities are  in  some  respects  the  very  opposite 
of  angelic ;  being,  in  fact,  thoroughly  hu- 
man. All  observers  must  have  been  struck 
with  their  quite  Hibernian  fondness  for  a 
shindy.  Two  of  the  same  kind  seldom 
come  within  hail  of  each  other  without  a 
little  set-to,  just  for  sociability's  sake,  as  it 


B  UTTEBFL  Y  PS  YCHOL  OG  Y.  213 

were ;  and  I  have  seen  a  dozen  or  more 
gathered  thickly  about  a  precious  bit  of 
moist  earth,  air  crowding  and  pushing  for 
place  in  a  manner  not  to  be  outdone  by  the 
most  patriotic  of  office-seekers. 

It  is  my  private  heresy,  perhaps,  this 
strong  anthropomorphic  turn  of  mind, 
which  impels  me  to  assume  the  presence 
of  a  soul  in  all  animals,  even  in  these  airy 
nothings ;  and,  having  assumed  its  exist- 
ence, to  speculate  as  to  what  goes  on  within 
it.  I  know  perfectly  well  that  such  ques- 
tions as  I  have  been  raising  are  not  to  be 
answered.  They  are  not  meant  to  be  an- 
swered. But  I  please  myself  with  asking 
them,  nevertheless,  having  little  sympathy 
with  those  precise  intellectual  economists 
who  count  it  a  waste  to  let  the  fancy  play 
with  insoluble  mysteries.  Why  is  fancy 
winged,  I  should  like  to  know,  if  it  is  never 
to  disport  itself  in  fields  out  of  which  the 
clumsy,  heavy-footed  understanding  is  de- 
barred ? 


BASHFUL  DRUMMERS. 

He  goes  but  to  see  a  noise  that  he  heard. 

SHAKESPEARE. 

AT  the  back  of  my  father's  house  were 
woods,  to  my  childish  imagination  a  bound- 
less wilderness.  Little  by  little  I  ventured 
into  them,  and  among  my  earliest  recollec- 
tions of  their  sombre  and  lonesome  depths 
was  a  long,  thunderous,  far-away  drumming 
noise,  beginning  slowly  and  increasing  in 
speed  till  the  blows  became  almost  contin- 
uous. This,  somebody  told  me,  was  the 
drumming  of  the  partridge.  Now  and  then, 
in  open  spaces  in  the  path,  I  came  upon 
shallow  circular  depressions  where  the  bird 
had  been  dusting,  an  operation  in  which  I 
had  often  seen  our  barnyard  fowls  compla- 
cently engaged.  At  other  times  I  was 
startled  by  the  sudden  whir  of  the  bird's 
wings  as  he  sprang  up  at  my  feet,  and  went 
dashing  away  through  the  underbrush.  I 
heard  with  open-mouthed  wonder  of  men 
who  had  been  known  to  shoot  a  bird  thus 


BASHFUL  DRUMMERS.  215 

flying !  All  in  all,  the  partridge  made  a 
great  impression  upon  my  boyish  mind. 

By  and  by  some  older  companion  initi- 
ated me  into  the  mystery  of  setting  snares. 
My  attempts  were  primitive  enough,  no 
doubt;  but  they  answered  their  purpose, 
taking  me  into  the  woods  morning  and 
night,  in  all  kinds  of  weather,  and  afford- 
ing me  no  end  of  pleasurable  excitement. 
Once  in  a  great  while  the  noose  would  be 
displaced  (the  "  slip-noose,"  we  called  it, 
with  unsuspected  pleonasm),  and  the  bar- 
berries gone.  At  last,  after  numberless 
disappointments,  I  actually  found  a  bird  in 
the  snare.  The  poor  captive  was  still  alive, 
and,  as  I  came  up,  was  making  frantic  ef- 
forts to  escape  ;  but  I  managed  to  secure 
him,  in  spite  of  my  trembling  fingers,  and 
then,  though  the  deed  looked  horribly  like 
murder,  I  killed  him  (I  would  rather  not 
mention  how),  and  carried  him  home  in 
triumph. 

Many  years  passed,  and  I  became  in  my 
own  way  an  ornithologist.  One  by  one  I 
scraped  acquaintance  with  all  the  common 
birds  of  our  woods  and  fields;  but  the 
drumming  of  the  partridge  (or  of  the  ruffled 


216  BASHFUL  DRUMMERS. 

grouse,  as  I  now  learned  to  call  him)  re- 
mained a  mystery.  I  read  Emerson's  de- 
scription of  the  "  forest-seer  :  "  — 

"  He  saw  the  partridge  drum  in  the  woods  j 
He  heard  the  woodcock's  evening  hymn ; 
He  found  the  tawny  thrushes'  broods  ; 
And  the  shy  hawk  did  wait  for  him ; " 

and  I  thought :  "  Well,  now,  I  have  seen 
and  heard  the  woodcock  at  his  vespers ;  I 
have  found  the  nest  of  the  tawny  thrush ; 
the  shy  hawk  has  sat  still  on  the  branch  just 
over  my  head ;  but  I  have  not  seen  the  par- 
tridge drum  in  the  woods.  Why  should  n't 
I  do  that,  also  ? "  I  made  numerous  at- 
tempts. A  bird  often  drummed  in  a  small 
wood  where  I  was  in  the  habit  of  rambling 
before  breakfast.  The  sound  came  always 
from  a  particular  quarter,  and  probably 
from  a  certain  stone  wall,  running  over  a 
slight  rise  of  ground  near  a  swamp.  The 
crafty  fellow  evidently  did  not  mean  to  be 
surprised ;  but  I  made  a  careful  reconnois- 
sance,  and  finally  hit  upon  what  seemed  a 
feasible  point  of  approach.  A  rather  large 
boulder  offered  a  little  cover,  and,  after  sev- 
eral failures,  I  one  day  spied  the  bird  on  the 
wall.  He  had  drummed  only  a  few  min- 


BASHFUL  DRUMMERS.  217 

utes  before ;  but  his  lookout  was  most 
likely  sharper  than  mine.  At  all  events, 
he  dropped  off  the  wall  on  the  further  side, 
and  for  that  time  I  saw  nothing  more  of 
him.  Nor  was  I  more  successful  the  next 
time,  nor  the  next.  Be  as  noiseless  as  I 
could,  the  wary  creature  inevitably  took  the 
alarm.  To  make  matters  worse,  mornings 
were  short  and  birds  were  many.  One  day 
there  were  rare  visiting  warblers  to  be 
looked  after ;  another  day  the  gray-cheeked 
thrushes  had  dropped  in  upon  us  on  their 
way  northward,  and,  if  possible,  I  must 
hear  them  sing.  Then  the  pretty  blue 
golden  -  winged  warbler  was  building  her 
nest,  and  by  some  means  or  other  I  must 
find  it. 

Thus  season  after  season  slipped  by. 
Then,  in  another  place,  I  accidentally 
passed  quite  round  a  drummer.  I  heard 
him  on  the  right,  and  after  traveling  only 
a  few  rods,  I  heard  him  on  the  left.  He 
must  be  very  near  me,  and  not  far  from  the 
crest  of  a  low  hill,  over  which,  as  in  the 
former  instance,  a  stone  wall  ran.  He 
drummed  at  long  intervals,  and  meanwhile 
I  was  straining  my  eyes  and  advancing  at 


218  BASHFUL  DRUMMERS. 

a  snail's  pace  up  the  slope.  Happily,  the 
ground  was  carpeted  with  pine  needles,  and 
comparatively  free  from  brush  and  dead 
twigs,  those  snapping  nuisances  that  so 
often  bring  all  our  patience  and  ingenuity 
to  nought.  A  section  of  the  wall  came  into 
sight,  but  I  got  no  glimpse  of  the  bird. 
Presently  I  went  down  upon  all  fours  ; 
then  lower  yet,  crawling  instead  of  creep- 
ing, till  I  could  look  over  the  brow  of  the 
hill.  Here  I  waited,  and  had  begun  to  fear 
that  I  was  once  more  to  have  my  labor  for 
my  pains,  when  all  at  once  I  saw  the  grouse 
step  from  one  stone  to  another.  "  Now  for 
it !  "  I  said  to  myself.  But  the  drumming 
did  not  follow,  and  anon  I  lost  sight  of  the 
drummer.  Again  I  waited,  and  finally  the 
fellow  jumped  suddenly  upon  a  top  stone, 
lifted  his  wings,  and  commenced  the  fa- 
miliar roll-call.  I  could  see  his  wings  beat- 
ing against  his  sides  with  quicker  and 
quicker  strokes  ;  but  an  unlucky  bush  was 
between  us,  and  hoping  to  better  my  posi- 
tion, I  moved  a  little  to  one  side.  Upon 
this,  the  bird  became  aware  of  my  presence, 
I  think.  At  least  I  could  see  him  staring 
straight  at  me,  and  a  moment  later  he 


BASHFUL  DRUMMERS.  219 

dropped  behind  the  wall ;  and  though  I  re- 
mained motionless  till  a  cramp  took  me,  I 
heard  nothing  more.  "  If  it  had  not  been 
for  that  miserable  bush  !  "  I  muttered.  But 
I  need  not  have  quarreled  with  an  innocent 
bush,  as  if  it,  any  more  than  myself,  had 
been  given  a  choice  where  it  should  grow. 
A  wiser  man  would  have  called  to  mind  the 
old  saw,  and  made  the  most  of  "half  a 
loaf." 

Another  year  passed,  and  another  spring 
came  round.  Then,  on  the  same  hillside,  a 
bird  (probably  the  same  individual)  was 
drumming  one  April  morning,  and,  as  my 
note-book  has  it,  "I  came  within  one"  of 
taking  him  in  the  act.  I  miscalculated  his 
position,  however,  which,  as  it  turned  out, 
was  not  upon  the  wall,  but  on  a  boulder 
surrounded  by  a  few  small  pine-trees.  The 
rock  proved  to  be  well  littered,  and  clearly 
was  the  bird's  regular  resort.  "  Very 
good,"  said  I,  "  I  will  catch  you  yet." 

Five  days  later  I  returned  to  the  charge, 
and  was  rewarded  by  seeing  the  fellow 
drum  once  ;  but,  as  before,  intervening 
brush  obscured  my  view.  I  crept  forward, 
inch  by  inch,  till  the  top  of  the  boulder 


220  BASHFUL  DRUMMERS. 

came  into  sight,  and  waited,  and  waited, 
and  waited.  At  last  I  pushed  on,  and  lo, 
the  place  was  deserted.  There  is  a  familiar 
Scripture  text  that  might  have  been  writ- 
ten on  purpose  for  ornithologists  :  "  Let 
patience  have  her  perfect  work." 

This  was  April  14th.  On  the  19th  I 
made  the  experiment  again.  The  drummer 
was  at  it  as  I  drew  near,  and  fortune  favored 
me  at  last.  I  witnessed  the  performance 
three  times  over.  Even  now,  to  be  sure, 
the  prospect  was  not  entirely  clear,  but  it 
was  better  than  ever  before,  and  by  this 
time  I  had  learned  to  be  thankful  for  small 
mercies.  The  grouse  kept  his  place  be- 
tween the  acts,  moving  his  head  a  little 
one  way  and  another,  but  apparently  doing 
nothing  else. 

Of  course  I  had  in  mind  the  disputed 
question  as  to  the  method  by  which  the 
drumming  noise  is  produced.  It  had 
seemed  to  me  that  whoever  would  settle 
this  point  must  do  it  by  attending  carefully 
to  the  first  slow  beats.  This  I  now  at- 
tempted, and  after  one  trial  was  ready,  off- 
hand, to  accept  a  theory  which  heretofore  I 
had  scouted  ;  namely,  that  the  bird  makes 


BASHFUL  DRUMMERS.  221 

the  sound  by  striking  his  wings  together 
over  his  back.  He  brought  them  up,  even 
for  the  first  two  or  three  times,  with  a  quick 
convulsive  movement,  and  I  could  almost 
have  made  oath  that  I  heard  the  beat  before 
the  wings  fell.  But  fortunately,  or  unfor- 
tunately, I  waited  till  he  drummed  again  ; 
and  now  I  was  by  no  means  so  positive  in 
my  conviction.  If  an  observer  wishes  to 
be  absolutely  sure  of  a  thing,  —  I  have 
learned  this  by  long  experience,  —  let  him 
look  at  it  once,  and  forever  after  shut  his 
eyes !  On  the  whole,  I  return  to  my  pre- 
vious opinion,  that  the  sound  is  made  by 
the  downward  stroke,  though  whether 
against  the  body  or  against  the  air,  I  will 
not  presume  to  say. 

A  man  who  is  a  far  better  ornithologist 
than  I,  and  who  has  witnessed  this  perform- 
ance under  altogether  more  favorable  con- 
ditions than  I  was  ever  afforded,  assures  me 
that  his  performer  sat  down  !  My  bird  took 
no  such  ridiculous  position.  So  much,  at 
least,  I  am  sure  of. 

When  he  had  drummed  three  times,  my 
partridge  quit  his  boulder  (I  was  near 
enough  to  hear  him  strike  the  dry  leaves), 


222  BASHFUL  DRUMMERS. 

and  after  a  little  walked  suddenly  into  plain 
sight.  We  discovered  each  other  at  the 
same  instant.  I  kept  motionless,  nay  field- 
glass  up.  He  made  sundry  nervous  move- 
ments, especially  of  his  ruff,  and  then  si- 
lently stalked  away. 

I  could  not  blame  him  for  his  lack  of 
neighborliness.  If  I  had  been  shot  at  and 
hunted  with  dogs  as  many  times  as  he  prob- 
ably had  been,  I  too  might  have  become 
a  little  shy  of  strangers.  To  my  thinking, 
indeed,  the  grouse  is  one  of  our  most  esti- 
mable citizens.  A  liking  for  the  buds  of 
fruit-trees  is  his  only  fault  (not  many  of 
my  townsmen  have  a  smaller  number,  I 
fancy),  and  that  is  one  easily  overlooked, 
especially  by  a  man  who  owns  no  orchard. 
Every  sportsman  tries  to  shoot  him,  and 
every  winter  does  its  worst  to  freeze  or 
starve  him ;  but  he  continues  to  flourish. 
Others  may  migrate  to  sunnier  climes,  or 
seek  safety  in  the  backwoods,  but  not  so  the 
partridge.  He  was  born  here,  and  here  he 
means  to  stay.  What  else  could  be  ex- 
pected of  a  bird  whose  notion  of  a  lover's 
serenade  is  the  beating  of  a  drum  ? 


OUT-DOOR   BOOKS, 
|3ro0e  ana  poetical. 


Agassiz,  Alexander  and  Elizabeth  C.    Seaside  Studies  in 

Natural  History.     Illustrated.     8vo,  $3.00. 
Agassiz,  Prof.  Louis.      Methods  of   Study  in  Natural 

History.     With  Illustrations.     Crown  8vo,  gilt  top,  $1.50. 
Geological  Sketches.    First  Series.    With  Illustrations. 

Crown  8vo,  gilt  top,  $1.50. 

Geological  Sketches.  Second  Series.  Crown  8vo,  gilt 
top,  $1.50. 

Bailey,  Prof.  L.  H.,  Jr.    Talks  Afield,  about  -Plants  and 

the  Science  of  Plants.    With  100  Illustrations.     i6mo,  $1.00. 

Bamford,  Mary  E.  Up  and  Down  the  Brooks.  In  Riv- 
erside Library  for  Young  People.  Illustrated.  i6mo,  75  cents. 

Barrows,  Samuel  J.  and  Isabel  C.  The  Shaybacks  in 
Camp.  Ten  Summers  under  Canvas.  With  Map  of  Lake  Mem- 
phremagog.  i6mo,  $1.00. 

Burroughs,  John.  Works.  Each  volume,  i6mo,  gilt 
top,  #1.23. 


Birds  and  Poets,  with  other  Pa- 
pers. 

Locusts  and  Wild  Honey. 
Pepacton,  and  other  Sketches. 
Fresh  Fields. 
Signs  and  Seasons. 


Wake  Robin.  New  Edition,  re- 
vised. Illustrated. 

The  Same.  Riverside  Aldine 
Edition.  1 6rao ,  $  i  .00. 

Winter  Sunshine.  New  Edition, 
revised. 

Birds  and  Bees.     Essays  by  JOHN  BURROUGHS.    With 

introduction  by  MARY  K.  BURT.  In  Riverside  Literature  Se- 
ries. i6mo,  paper,  15  cents,  net. 

Sharp  Eyes,  and  other  Papers.    By  JOHN  BURROUGHS. 

In  Riverside  Literature  Series.  i6mo,  paper,  15  cents,  net. 
The  above  two  pamphlets,  i6mo,  boards,  40  cents,  net. 

Gary,  Alice.     Pictures  of  Country  Life.     Short  Stories. 

i2ino,  $1.50. 

Cooper,  James  Fenimore.    Cooper  Stories.    Narratives 

of  Adventure  selected  from  COOPER'S  Works.  Stories  of  the 
Prairies.  Stories  of  the  Woods.  Stories  of  the  Sea,  Illus- 
trated. 3  vols.  i6mo,  $1.00  each;  the  set,  $3.00. 

Cooper,  Susan  Fenimore.     Rural  Hours.     New  Revised 

Edition,  abridged.     i6mo,  $1.25. 

Dodge,  Col.  Theodore  A.  Patroclus  and  Penelope.  A 
Chat  in  the  Saddle.  With  14  Phototypes  of  the  Horse  in  mo- 
tion.  8vo,  half  roan,  gilt  top,  $3.00. 

Popular  Edition.  With  Illustrations  in  outline.  Crown 
8vo,  half  roan,  $1.25. 


Edwards,  W.  H.  The  Butterflies  of  North  America. 
Containing  life-size  figures  carefully  colored  by  hand  from  na- 
ture, with  descriptive  letter-press. 

First  Series.  Containing  fifty  colored  Plates.  4to,  half 
morocco,  full  gilt,  $35.00,  net. 

The  Same.     With  uncolored  Plates.    4to,  $15.00,  net ; 

half  morocco,  full  gilt,  $20.00,  net. 
Second  Series.  Containing  fifty-one  colored  Plates.  4to, 

half  morocco,  full  gilt,  $40.00,  net. 
The  Same.     With  uncolored  Plates.    4to,  $15.00,  net; 

half  morocco,  full  gilt,  $20.00,  net. 
Third   Series.      To  be    issued    in  from   seventeen   to 

twenty  4to  Parts.     Containing  three  Plates  each.     Each  part, 

$2.25,  net. 

Parts  i-io  are  now  ready,  and  the  remaining  Parts  will  ap- 
pear at  intervals  of  about  three  months. 

Emerson,  Ralph  Waldo.  Nature,  Love,  Friendship,  etc. 
Modern  Classics,  No.  2.  32mo,  75  cents;  School  Edition,  40 
cents,  net. 

Greene,  Homer.    Coal  and  the  Coal  Mines.     In  River- 
side Library  for  Young  People.     Illustrated.     i6mo,  75  cents. 
Hawthorne,  Nathaniel.     Tales  of  the  White  Hills,  etc. 

321110,  75  cents ;  School  Edition,  40  cents,  net. 
Hubbard,  Lucius  L.     Woods  and  Lakes  of  Maine.     A 
Trip  from  Moosehead   Lake  to  New  Brunswick  in  a  Birch-Bark 
Canoe.     With  Indian    Place- Names  and  their  Meanings,  many 
Illustrations  by  W.  L.  TAYLOR,  and  large  Map.    8vo,  $3.00. 

In  the  Saddle.     A  Collection  of  Poems  on  Horseback 

Riding.     i6mo,  gilt  top,  $1.00. 

Jewett,    Sarah    Orne.    Country    By- Ways.     i8mo,  gilt 

top,  $1.25. 
Larcom,  Lucy  (editor).     Roadside  Poems  for  Summer 

Travellers.     i8mo,  $1.00. 

Hillside  and  Seaside  in  Poetry.     i8mo,  $1.00. 
Leland,  Charles  G.    The  Gypsies.    With  Sketches  of  the 

English,  Welsh,  Russian,  and  Austrian  Romany,  and  Papers  on 
the  Gypsy  Language.     Crown  8vo,  $2.00. 

The  Algonquin  Legends  of  New  England.  Myths  and 
Folk  -  Lore  of  the  Micmac,  Passamaquoddy,  and  Penobscot 
Tribes.  Illustrated  from  designs  upon  birch-bark  by  an  Indian. 
Crown  8vo,  $2.00. 

lowell,  James  Russell.  My  Garden  Acquaintance ;  A 
Good  Word  for  Winter ;  A  Moosehead  Journal ;  At  Sea.  In 
Modern  Classics.  32010,  75  cents .  School  Edition,  40  cents,  net. 

Merriam,  Florence  A.  Birds  through  an  Opera-Glass. 
In  Riverside  Library  for  Young  People.  Illustrated.  i6mo, 
75  cents. 


Miller,  Olive  Thome.    Bird-Ways.     i6mo,  $1.25. 
In  Nesting  Time.     i6mo,  $1.25. 

Nature.  "  Little  Classics,"  Vol.  XIV.  Edited  by  Ros- 
SITER  JOHNSON.  i8mo,  $1.00. 

Orvis,  Charles  F  ,  and  Cheney,  A.  Nelson  (editors).  Fish- 
ing with  the  Fly.  A  volume  of  original  Essays  on  Angling.  By 
Lovers  of  the  Art.  With  Accompaniment  of  Quotations.  With 
colored  Plates  of  149  of  the  standard  varieties  of  Flies,  Map,  and 
Index.  Crown  8vo,  £2.50. 

Pool,  Maria  Louise.     Tenting  at   Stony  Beach.     i6mo, 

$1.00. 

Band,  Edward  Sprague,  Jr.  Bulbs.  Illustrated.  i2mo, 
$2.50. 

Flowers  for  the  Parlor  and  Garden.  Illustrated.  i2mo, 
#2.50. 

Garden  Flowers  :  How  to  Cultivate  them.  New  Edi- 
tion, revised.  Illustrated.  12010,  $2.50. 

Orchids.     I2mo,  $3.00. 

Popular  Flowers,  and  How  to  Cultivate  them.  New 
Edition  revised  and  enlarged.  With  Appendix.  Illustrated. 
Crown  8vo,  $2.00. 

Rhododendrons.     New  Edition,  revised.     I2mo,  $1.50. 

The  Window  Gardener.  New  Edition,  enlarged.  i2mo, 
$1.25- 

Biverside  Natural  History.  A  Treasury  of  Authori- 
tative Information,  presenting  the  most  Recent  Discoveries. 
With  special  reference  to  American  Fauna,  including  a  carefully 
prepared  Bibliography.  Edited  by  JOHN  STIRLING  KINGSLEY, 
with  the  cooperation  of  a  corps  of  forty-three  Writers,  including 
the  most  eminent  American  Naturalists.  An  imperial  work, 
richly  illustrated  throughout  by  over  2200  Wood-cuts  in  the 
Text,  1 63  full-page  Engravings,  and  12  colored  Plates.  6  vols. 
royal  8vo,  each,  #5.00,  net;  sheep,  £6.00,  net;  half  morocco, 
$7.00,  ntt. 

1.  The  Lower  Invertebrates,     j     4.  The  Birds. 

2.  Crustacea  and  Insects.  5.  The  Mammals. 

3.  Fishes  and  Reptiles.  |     6.  Man. 

(Sold  only  by  subscription  for  the  entire  work.) 

Sargent,  Charles  Sprague.    The  Silva  of  North  America ; 

or  a  Description  of  the  Trees  which  grow  naturally  in  North- 
America,  exclusive  of  Mexico.  By  CHARLES  SPRAGUE  SARGENT, 
Director  of  the  Arnold  Arboretum  of  Harvard  University.  Il- 
lustrated with  600  Figures  and  Analyses  drawn  from  Nature,  by 
CHARLES  EDWARD  FAXON,  and  engraved  by  PHILIBERT  and 
EUGENE  PICART.  Describing  422  species  belonging  to  the  forest 
Flora  of  North  America,  exclusive  of  varieties.  12  vols.,  each 
containing  50  Plates.  Each,  4to,  #25.00,  net. 


Vols.  I.  and  II.  now  ready.  It  is  intended  to  publish  the  work 
at  the  rate  of  two  volumes  a  year,  as  nearly  as  possible,  until  it  is 
finished. 

Sylvester,    Herbert    Milton.       Homestead     Highways. 

121110,  gilt  top,  $1.50. 

Prose  Pastorals.     I2mo,  gilt  top,  $1.50. 

Thomas,  Edith  M.    The  Round  Year.    Prose  Papers. 

i6mo,  gilt  top,  $1.25. 

Thoreau,  Henry  D.     Each  volume,  I2mo,  gilt  top,  $1.50. 

Walden ;  or,  Life  in  the  Woods.    (See  below.) 

A  Week  on  the  Concord  and  Merrimack  Rivers. 

Excursions  in  Field  and  Forest.  With  Biographical  Sketch  by 
RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON. 

The  Maine  Woods. 

Cape  Cod. 

A  Yankee  in  Canada,  with  Anti-Slavery  and  Reform  Papers. 

Early  Spring  in  Massachusetts  :  From  the  Journal  of  Thoreau. 
Edited,  with  an  Introduction,  by  H.  G.  O.  BLAKE. 

Summer  :  From  the  Journal  of  Thoreau.  Edited  by  H.  G.  O. 
BLAKE,  with  Map  of  Concord. 

Winter:  From  the  Journal  of  Thoreau.  Edited  by  H.  G.  O. 
BLAKE. 

Walden.     Riverside  Aldine  Edition.     2  vols.  i6mo,  $2.00. 

The  Succession  of  Forest  Trees  and  Wild  Apples.  With  Bio- 
graphical Sketch  by  R.  W.  EMERSON.  In  Riverside  Litera- 
ture Series.  i6mo,  paper,  15  cents,  net. 

Torrey,  Bradford.    Birds  in  the  Bush.     i6mo,  $1.25. 

A  Rambler's  Lease.     i6mo,  $1.25. 

Warner,  Charles  Dudley.  My  Summer  in  a  Garden. 
Illustrated  by  DARLEV.  Square  i6mo,  $1.50.  Riverside  Aldine 
Edition.  i6mo,  $1.00. 

In  the  Wilderness.  Adirondack  Essays.  New  Edition, 
enlarged.  i8mo,  $1.00. 

On  Horseback.  A  Tour  in  Virginia,  North  Carolina, 
and  Tennessee.  With  Notes  of  Travel  in  Mexico  and  Califor- 
nia. i6mo,  $1.25. 

A-Hunting  of  the  Deer,  and  other  Essays.  In  River- 
side Literature  Series.  i6mo,  paper,  15  cents,  net. 

Whiting,  C.  Gr.  The  Saunterer.  Essays  on  Nature.  i6mo, 
$1.25. 

Whittier,  John  Greenleaf.      Snow-Bound.     A  Winter 

Idyl.     i6mo.  $1.00.     Illustrated  Edition.     8vo,  $2.00. 
Wiggin,  Kate  Douglas.     A  Summer  in  a  Canon.     New 
Edition.     Illustrated.     i6mo,  $1.25. 


HOUGHTON,   MIFFLIN   &   COMPANY, 
BOSTON  AND  NEW  YORK. 


